Poison Apple
by Mizari
Summary: A different version of Rogue's life and love: how she developed her cursed powers, why she resents and separates herself from others, and what led her to fall in love with a Cajun thief. Comic-based ROMY.
1. Chapter One: The First Taste

**Poison Apple**

**Chapter One: **The First Taste

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, though I wish I did, nor do I own any of the Marvel characters.

A/N: I watched _X-Men: First Class_ the other night and got very angry at the discrepancies between the movies and the comics. I even went back to the kids' show and had a silent tirade about the stupid relationship between Shadowcat and Avalanche and the _lack_ of a relationship between Gambit and Rogue. They were always my favorite couple, and even now I seethe at the thought of the movie version of Rogue hooking up with Iceman, of all people, and not the Cajun spice.

After a few minutes of violently wishing my boyfriend had a Cajun accent, I got over my anger and decided I wanted to read the comics. Before, I only read in-depth summaries about my favorite characters, but I realized it's clearly not enough to read a few short sentences about Gambit and Rogue, because their relationship is only a small part in a big, big comic scheme. Even in their online biographies, their relationship is only mentioned every so often, which isn't enough for me.

And since I can't buy the comics or read them online, I decided to go ahead and write a version to satisfy myself.

This will be based loosely on the comics, but since my understanding of them is small, I'm guessing that the most I can promise is that they will have similar backgrounds.

But let me say, they are one tragic couple to begin with. My goal is to make someone, if not me, cry.

Forgive me if things are a little difficult to understand. I've received such criticism before, and I've gone over this chapter twice, hoping to mend it. If it isn't satisfactory, please tell me, and I'll try to fix it. And, yes, criticisms are greatly appreciated. I'm a ridiculously harsh critic, myself, so I bear no grudge on others feeling the same.

**Warning:** Though the story is rated T, this chapter, and the occasional other, will have an M rating for suggested themes.

-/-

She was only a kid, so the adults assumed she didn't understand.

"Bless yo hah't, sugah." They whispered to her, coddling and petting her like a doll. She might as well have been one, the way they treated her—to be seen, not heard, "Go to bed, sweethah't." "Let the adults tahk, precious."

Of course, there was the rare exception when they realized that maybe she did have something important to say, "Come here, dahling, an' tell the adults wat ya saw."

How was it that adults, who were once children themselves, failed to realize that kids were more perceptive than they realized? In fact, oftentimes, children had more insight than adults. They were foolish to think otherwise, but she had long since suspected that age bloated adults with superiority, which hindered their ability to understand. They assumed, because they were older and more experienced, that children were blind to the ways of the world. Hence, every time she tried to explain something—anything—they shushed her, patted her head, and sent her back to her room. They knew better (according to them) and weren't willing to let her intrude on their adamant belief.

Adults know, know, _know_ better, after all.

"Wat happen'd, sugah? Tell the nice mistah policeman wat happen'd."

Yet they asked her questions. She hadn't been there, so how could she have known? If they knew everything, why didn't _they_ know? Why weren't they listening to her?

_Because adults know._

She fidgeted in her seat, the room suddenly growing cold. Was it this cold earlier? Did someone change the temperature? Maybe Bo did; she wouldn't be surprised if he played a prank like that.

Yes, Bo. He liked pranks. This was a prank, right? It must be. All a prank. So was everything that had been happening the last month. It wasn't real. It was all an elaborate game to fool her. Any moment now, Bo and Sarah were going to jump into the room, wearing big grins and yelling, "Surprise! April fools!"

But the door remained closed. No one jumped in, and she felt embarrassed that she had let herself believe miracles could happen.

She could imagine Bo right now, snickering behind her and his hot breath tickling her ear, "Ya gonna get kawt by the cops, sweetie. Yaw as innocent as Miss Maurine's apple pie, and they can smell it. Apple pie tastes good, ya know, and them cops love ta fatten themselves up wit that apple pie." Even though she was alone in the office with Missus Ruth and the officer, she smelled his chewing tobacco and heard swish of his water bottle, half full of his spit dip.

Instinctively, she held her breath. If Bo were here, he would be blowing his stinky breath in her face, knowing it revolted her.

The officer snapped his finger in her face, trying to regain her attention. For a few seconds, he had, but then she was distracted once more.

Missus Ruth said she hated dip, but all the boys knew that she kept a stash to herself, along with some whiskey and bourbon, in the second left drawer on her desk. The missus' eyes kept flicking back to the drawer, as if she needed to satisfy the craving. Lately, she had been returning to that drawer more and more often.

She imagined the tinkling of ice in a small glass, stained rich gold with liquor.

Ice. Cold. The office was cold, as if someone was holding ice to her skin. But if it was so cold, then why was she sweating?

"Apple pie, hon. Like apple pie." She imagined Bo's voice again, wet and punctuated with a spit and a chew.

"Wat happened?"

She tried to clear her head and stared into the policeman's rheumy eyes. Yes, what did happen?

-/-

"Chi'ren, say hullo tah Mistah and Missus Camlin." Missus Ruth waddled her large, black bulk into the room, sweeping a fat arm behind her. Today she wore a faded blue dress that seemed too small for a woman her size; her limbs, more so today, looked like black sausages attached under her head, which was so large that it looked as if it sat on her shoulders, neckless.

Missus Ruth usually had a bad taste in fashion, but money was tight in the orphanage, and who cared for fashion, anyway? Missus Ruth had three priorities in life—herself, money, and her job. And since she maintained her job to satisfy her second priority, then technically, she had two, instead.

The man and woman behind her personified the perfect country couple. They were the stuff of orphan dreams—blond hair, blue eyes, perfect (white) teeth, tanned skin, pearls, fancy watches, and a neat suit and sundress. And smiles. Lots of smiles. When the children went to bed at night and said their prayers, these were the adoptive parents they envisioned in their mind.

But while the children dreamed and prayed and dreamed some more, most of them could see what was behind those smiles.

They had the smiles of condescending socialites who felt as if their presence here in a lower Memphis orphanage should be an honor in itself. While they shouldn't expect a fanfare and open admiration from the children, as well as lots of compliments and stares, the couple had the air of people who expected it. They were the type who invested their time, and endless money, in country clubs and charities and expensive fads, the latest of which probably entailed adopting poor, impoverished souls. And where better to adopt, without the trouble of going overseas, than in the South's Sin City, Memphis?

The kids who weren't old enough to realize this were instead distracted by the woman's lipstick, which was an obnoxious shade of red. Like the ripe, poisonous apple in Snow White, proffered to her by the evil witch. Deep, deep red. Almost blinding, yet inviting. Tempting and beautiful.

This, in their minds, was indeed the mother they always wanted.

One of the young girls, on the other hand, thought it looked cheesy. When she whispered this to Sarah, her friend giggled in agreement. Missus Ruth, thankfully, was too busy fawning over the rich couple to notice. But when the children still hadn't greeted the guests, the woman spun around with shocking speed, her black eyes glittering.

Immediately, the children uttered a clumsy, "Hullo."

Sarah was the only one with enough spunk to add a "Nice to meet'cha!"

Missus Ruth approved of Sarah's eagerness and glared at the other children for neglecting to be as welcoming. After she was satisfied that she had frightened them (which she didn't), she returned her attention to the Camlins and asked, in her rusty, greedy voice, "What kinda kid ya lookin' for, ma'am?"

She addressed the wife, having enough experience to know that the woman's opinion was all that mattered. Her husband, after all, had the bored look of a man buying his wife a puppy or a car, in hopes to sate her mood; he didn't care what the kid looked like, as long as his spouse was happy (and out of his hair).

The couple didn't take long making a choice.

Sarah.

The Camlin wife adored her "darling pigtails" and "sweet country voice." She never bothered sparing a glance at the other girl, who stood next to Sarah, wore pigtails herself, and also had that "sweet country voice." Was it because Sarah took the initiative? Was it because she was blond-haired and blue-eyed, like them? Was it because of the adorable freckles on her nose or the sweeter-than-honey personality?

She was sweet, too. Sweet like apple pie, Bo would tell her. And apple pie was really sweet. But why did they choose Sarah? The couple practically never even thought about their decision. It was almost as if they had picked the first child to catch their interest and didn't want to look any further.

In a few seconds, the Camlins had transported themselves into a different universe, where only Missus Ruth and Sarah were permitted entrance. Even though she was Sarah's best friend and stood next to her, she understood that she was excluded from their world.

She felt a stone sink in her stomach. She shouldn't be thinking such thoughts. The good Lord would punish her for them, surely. After all, Sarah was her best friend. They'd been together since the day Sarah arrived year before last. Best friends. They were best friends, right? But Sarah looked so overjoyed. So happy. Sarah had only been a resident for two years, yet didn't _she_, her best friend, who had been at the orphanage since she was a baby, deserve that? She had certainly been waiting long enough to deserve it.

No. No. The good Lord has His ways, and to question them invited the Devil and divine punishment, as Miss Maurine would say. She should be happy for Sarah. Yes, happy for her. Happy that it took the Camlins one second to choose Sarah, when they could've chosen her.

Because no one had ever chosen her before. Everyone wanted babies, not kids her age. What were the odds that she would get picked? Fair, at best, but no one had ever come to take the shot. Especially no one as rich and cultured and well-dressed and...she shook her head, hoping the bad thoughts would drop out her ears and sink down in the ground to Hell, where they came from and belonged.

Shake, shake, shake. She imagined the thoughts falling out, bouncing off the ground at first and then sinking. Slowly, slowly sinking. Leaving her. Going home to Hell.

Home.

"Oh gracious, I can't wait to take this little darling home!" Squealed the wife, hugging Sarah, "We'll just have to stop and get you some clothes, first, though. No child of mine should be seen in nothing but the best."

Her heart burned, and her throat felt too tight, as if the air had suddenly become stuffy.

The other kids knew this was their cue to shuffle back to their rooms. Bo, who was already sixteen and didn't expect any offers at his age (because who wanted a grown boy when a little girl was far more attractive?), passed her with a wicked grin.

"Come on, Apple Pie. We gotta go home, too. Do ya wanna stop by Britta's room and go shoppin'? Maybe we can find ya a nice pair o' ol' jeans she hasn't peed on, eh?" His teasing was meaner than usual today, was always meaner right after an adoption.

He knew what she was feeling. Bo knew a lot of things, and he could read the disappointment on her face like it was a neon sign. As an older, frequently-rejected orphan, not once adopted in his short but pathetic life, he empathized with her pain. But he was also bitter with hate for it. And how else to spend the pain than to shove the burden on someone who understood?

He had been waiting for this day, a day when one of the girls would watch her friend get picked instead of her. For a day when despair and jealousy would taint her sweet angel face, like his had when his best friends were picked, one by one, until only he was left. He wasn't the only boy here, but he couldn't bond with the boys his age, as he had when he was younger. Constant rejection and anger had turned him…strange, and they thought it queer how he always watched the younger girls a little too closely and teased them a little too harshly. But those boys were cowards, and they averted their eyes as his big hand grasped the young girl's arm, practically dragging her behind him. Maybe, the boys thought, they could deny what they suspected—no, _knew_—would happen if they ignored it.

What you can't see can't hurt you.

Sarah and the Camlins, and even Missus Ruth, paid no mind, either. They were too busy admiring each other, accepting compliments, and giving them. They tossed these between each other like a bouncing ball.

"You're such a cute darling!"

"Only a lil' sweetie fo' yo, ma'am." Gushed Missus Ruth, eager to suck up to the family. She sensed a gold mine as well as she did fried chicken or a misbehaving child (actually, she sensed the gold and chicken a _lot_ better than the children, but she was unaware of this).

"Sarah?" She raised her free arm towards her friend, not wanting to intrude but uneasy and needing support. She had a bad feeling about Bo today, worse than usual. He liked watching her more than the other girls, and sometimes he would visit her and Sarah's room, when she was alone, and offer to help her change into her nightgown or take a bath. He said it was what big brothers did.

She suspected it was more than that, but as a child, she didn't understand, much less recognize, his ulterior motives.

She wasn't loud enough, because Sarah didn't hear her. Or didn't want to. Her friend was busy with her parents-to-be, grinning and saying, "Ya sure do have the pretties' hair, ma'am."

The adults laughed and petted Sarah's hair, calling her "precious" and blessing her sweet-as-honey heart.

She felt her heart go numb, watching their exclusive happiness, and her throat closed, unable to say anything else. She was still numb when Bo took her outside, behind the garden shed, and shared his pain—the loneliness, the abandonment, the hate—the only way a bitter, abandoned teenage boy like him knew how.

She was only nine years old, but behind the garden shed, which would become her frequent prison in the weeks to come, she grew up.

-/-

Sarah's papers were still being approved. The process was going slower than usual; Missus Ruth usually had the children out within the first two weeks. But it had been a month, now, and Bo said it was because Missus Ruth was trying to squeeze as much as she could from the Camlins.

"Oh, Ah haven't heard one word from 'em, yet, ma'am, but lil' Sarah's sayin' that she can't wait ta live wit ya. An' she also sayin' it awful col' in here, too, wit winter an' all. Heater broke o'er the summer, but Ah ain't gotta nickel to buy a 'pairman. The chi'ren are so hungry, cuz they be growin' fast, an' I had'ta buy more food ta feed 'em."

She and Sarah were playing on the swings. A distance had grown between them in the last month, but Sarah was oblivious to it, still a naïve nine year-old, sheltered from loneliness and secrets behind garden sheds. Unlike Sarah, she saw what the world was now, and had grown cold to her friend's innocence. Resentful, even. It wasn't fair. _She _had been at this stupid orphanage her whole life, and Sarah was getting a miracle, barely two years into this Hell.

And worst of all, Sarah didn't know she was in Hell. Was _escaping_ Hell. But she saw it. Bo had told her so; this was Hell. Missus Ruth was the Devil, and Bo was the demon, dragging her deeper inside. And Sarah? Sarah was a lucky dimwit who got to go to Heaven.

"Ya like mah new dress?" Sarah twirled back and forth, feeling the gossamer swish, swish on her legs. The dress was yellow, decorated with daisies and sunflowers, "Mama got it fo' me. She says she's gonna get me a whole bunch o' dresses when Ah come home."

Sarah called the woman "mama." So this orphanage wasn't even her home anymore. She was already moving on, without her best friend, who had stood by her for the last two years and stood alone the years before that.

The happy-go-lucky girl leapt into the only working swing, which was made of metal and covered in rust. Sarah didn't care that rust was smearing the pretty folds of her dress. Not caring about the ugly red-brown streaks that tainted the pretty sunshine yellow.

Red-brown rust, the color of the blood bled behind the garden shed that horrible day one month prior, when Sarah had betrayed her friend.

Yes, that's what it was. Betrayal. Sarah had spoken out on purpose, knowing they'd pick her. Maybe they were going to make a different choice, maybe they weren't, but Sarah hadn't wanted that to happen. So Sarah fooled them into taking her. She ruined the hope for anyone else, for her friend. It wasn't fair. Sarah had stolen her chance for happiness. And to make it worse, Sarah was mocking her with that dress. Ruining it, because her new rich mama would buy dozens and dozens more, probably ten times prettier than that one. With diamonds stitched on the collars, maybe.

'Lookit my new dress? Ain't it pretty? Aw, it got dirty. It's okay, Mama's went an' bawt me twenty mo'. An' thay sparkle, cuz there's diamonds on tha collah.'

Not fair, not fair, not fair! It should be her! She should get the dresses and home and mother and love and diamond collars.

"Yo were makin' fun at 'em the otha' day, but now ya love that woman like she's ya real mama." She couldn't help comparing their voices, and with a sickening twist in her stomach, realized her accent was far less pronounced than Sarah's.

The woman had liked Sarah's accent.

No, it wasn't that. Sarah's was exaggerated. Yes, Sarah was exaggerating her voice. Making it sweeter and stronger, so the Camlins would like her. Sarah knew they loved those deep accents. That's why they chose Sarah. Because she was making her voice more pronounced. More "sweet country," the way her new mama liked it. And she had planned it, too. Since the day she first came to the orphanage, Sarah had done it on purpose, made her voice like that. Just so that no one would suspect the truth. Yes, that made sense.

But her friend knew the truth. She knew things now, thanks to Bo. All sorts of things, and she could see what Sarah really was.

Not a dimwit, but an evil demon sent to Earth to torture her, because that's what demons do. They make lives miserable, because they have nothing better to do.

"Shucks, Ah was only kiddin', an' yo were, too. Mama is a perfect, respect'ble lady. She ain't doin' this cuz o' some silly country club she in, like tha otha kids say. She doin' it cuz she always been wantin' a baby."

"Ya ain't no baby, an' if yo are, yor the biggest baby Ah've eva' seen."

Sarah looked confused, dumbfounded by her friend's bitterness. And this only incited her anger, making her want to hurt Sarah more. As badly as possible. Until she cried. Yes, that would make her feel better. So she pushed Sarah off her swing and walked away, hoping her former best friend got a skinned knee or something.

Sure enough, Sarah broke into tears, but from pain or surprise, her friend didn't know or care.

Amidst Sarah's wails, she heard an all-too familiar voice calling from inside the orphanage, "Apple Pie!"

Bo was looking for her. She didn't want to see him, but she didn't want to stay with Sarah, either. She directed her feet towards the woods, knowing Sarah would tell, was too good not to tell, if Bo asked. But Bo would give up once he found out. He hated working for anything, the main reason he had never been picked for adoption. Who wants that lazy, good-for-nothing boy? And though he was faster and stronger, easily capable of catching a nine year-old girl, he wouldn't go through the trouble.

She knew she would pay for it later tonight, when he would surely catch her.

Darkly, in the back of her wicked, sinner's mind, she heard the Devil whisper that maybe Bo will get Sarah instead. Bo had become incredibly aggressive in the past few days, as if the younger girl was a drug he couldn't shake from his veins. He had begun needing her in the frenzied way a sinner needed salvation. What if his need was enough that he would settle for Sarah instead?

Maybe it would happen. And then Sarah would understand that the world wasn't about yellow dresses and accents and sparkly collars.

Bo always whispered to her, behind the shed, "One mo' time, Apple Pie. Ah promise Ah won't hurt ya no more. Just gimme this one las' time. Ya would fo' ya big bro Bo, right? Right? An' yo ain't gonna tell nobody, too?"

One last fix, one last sniff, one last whimper behind the garden shed, because she knew that she was too small and weak to escape Bo. Because the secret place between her legs ached and ached, and she wasn't sure if she could stand up and run, even if her life depended on it.

"Ah won't tell nobody, Bo."

Like a drug. One last fix. One last time. But then the need kicks in, and he's dragging her back there, sloppily and desperately. As if he doesn't care if it's the middle of lunchtime and everyone might notice.

"Yo sweet like Miss Maurine's apple pie. Sweet, sweet, sweet."

She could hear him in the distance, searching. He was using the nickname he had made for her. She hated him; she was scared of him. She didn't want to get hurt again. She wanted to be safe from him, to hide in the woods until Bo gave up on her forever.

At the thought of him finding her, she trembled and wet herself. She hated her lack of control and cried into her arms, crouching behind a tree and repeatedly wiping her nose on the ugly hand-me-down she'd inherited last year from an older girl.

Within a few minutes, he had given up, much to her relief. For someone so fixated on her, he was quick to surrender. He always was and always would be. Addictions only went so far, after all.

She waited in the woods until dinnertime, when her stomach rumbled for food. With heavy feet, she reluctantly returned to the orphanage, her clothes and legs sticky with urine. She needed to change; hopefully she would get a chance before Bo reached her.

-/-

"Ah don't know nuthin', Missus Ruth. Ah was hidin' in the woods, playin' by mahself."

Lie. Not the first, and certainly not the last.

"Did Bo ever touch you, little miss?" He didn't have a Southern accent, surprisingly, but she was too nervous to notice anything else about the policeman.

Bo's words kept revolving around in her head. He had said them before the adoption, before he began dragging her out to the garden shed. He had said the words teasingly, back then, because he saw her and Sarah swiping an extra slice of Miss Maurine's famous apple pie. They begged him not to tell the cops, like he threatened he would, and he joked that the cops didn't need him to know their guilt.

"'Specially you." He jabbed her cheek with his finger, and his untrimmed nails were broken and sharp, hurting her, "Yor too sweet, like that pie. 'em cops can sniff ya out." He had never let her live it down, until the garden shed, when it had turned from jokes to a squeezing hand on her arm and a dangerous voice saying, "Don't tell nobody. No cops, or nuthin'. Yor sweet, and ya better not be sweet ta anyone but me, ya hear?"

Sweet. Sweet as apple pie, huh?

When the interrogation was over, Missus Ruth allowed her to peer out the office window. Bo was being dragged into a cop car, unconscious and bleeding from the head. He had tried to fight the cops and lost, suffering a blow from a nightstick. Behind him, two men wheeled Sarah on a gurney and into an ambulance. Her face was a bloody mess, and her freckles had disappeared under a thick mask of blood, snot, tears, and mud.

The Devil whispered in her head again, as she watched from the window, _I hope her freckles never come back._

"Po' thang didn't deserve none o' that." Missus Ruth sniffed to the officer, "Ah neva' knew Bo was a bad boy! He was always so sweet."

There it was again. The word 'sweet.'

"Why would he rape an' beat that po' girl? She was 'sposed to be leavin' next week fo' her new fam'ly."

_Because ya didn't want her to, Missus Ruth. Ya wan'ned her new mama and papa's money, first. T'weren't fo' ya an' she'd be in her fancy 'ome by now._

Children were already more insightful than they should be, and adults took it for granted. Bo had taught her more, and she felt no longer like a child, but not an adult, either. Maybe she was in limbo, an observer to the events transpiring around her. She certainly seemed to be disconnected from reality. As if this whole world was a dream she was experiencing, and she was looking down on it from above.

Any second now, Sarah was going to jump out the ambulance doors with her big grin and yell, "Surprise! April fool's!"

But it wasn't April Fool's Day.

She could guess what had happened at the swing set between Sarah and Bo. He'd asked for her, and when Sarah wouldn't stop crying, he got impatient. Here was a girl, ready to be adopted—something he was beyond hoping to achieve—and his own girl was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't been able to stand the need any longer, and without his little girl to quench it, he used Sarah instead. And when she screamed and kicked and resisted, he beat her. He destroyed her, spending every single shred of anger and jealousy he had ever felt toward any kid with a family on her pretty face with its pretty freckles.

It had never occurred to her before to fight back; she had been too scared to resist Bo. But Sarah had dared to try and escape, and Bo had punished her for it. Looking at the retreating ambulance, she realized how delicate her imprisonment under Bo had been—if she had accidentally incurred his wrath, it would have been her in that ambulance, not Sarah.

That was scary.

The call came the next day. Sarah was dead. She was too young and weak to handle the shock, and her former best friend, crouched outside Missus Ruth's door, scoffed. She had received worse, but no one was crying for her. She hadn't died; she had been strong enough to live, but where was her funeral? Where was her candlelight vigil or fifteen minutes on Channel 3?

She closed her heart and encased it in ice, not realizing that Sarah's death had hurt her as much as Bo's abuse. Perhaps more, because she made a promise to herself that night. If anyone—anyone—dared to try and touch her like Bo had, then she would fight back. Tooth and nail, she would resist them. Unbeknownst to her, Sarah's ghost hung around her neck, weighing her down with guilt.

She lied to herself and pretended that the oath was an initiative to become stronger, not a guilt-driven death wish.

-/-

A thirteen year-old girl sat in a camp among a group of hippies. The hippies were singing to a bonfire, swaying to and fro or braiding their long hair. A few passed joints to each other, sharing the smoke. Some didn't need the pot to get high; peace and contentment was plenty enough for them. Their loose clothes hung limply on their bodies, collars slipping over shoulders either by accident or by the wandering hands of a lover. Several couples had wandered into their tents to shed their clothes altogether, but the girl didn't want to think of the act they were willingly indulging themselves.

As someone who had never been given the opportunity to choose sex, she dismissed them with a disgusted snort.

She had run away from her adoptive home last night, unable to handle to sudden shock that she had been adopted. The family never explained why they had desired a teenager, but they had chosen her after an hour of cautious deliberation. She was surprised that she was picked, and while the paperwork was being processed, she had convinced herself that it had all been a dream. Due to her troublesome past, she wasn't prepared to leave the orphanage, the closest thing she had to home, so suddenly. The thought of adoption—_her _adoption—was too strange to her and brought back unbidden nightmares of bloody freckles and apple pie.

So, at a gas station en route to her new home, the panic had gripped her until her whole body shook with fear. She filched two twenties from her adoptive mother's purse, jumped on a Greyhound filling for gas, and returned to Mississippi.

The hippies had been at the bus station somewhere south of Jackson, having just finished protesting the rights of some silly thing or another, waving their posters and peace signs like reverends wave their Bibles. Being lost souls themselves, they easily recognized the girl standing alone on a bench, staring into the concrete ground. After the station closed, she was still there, and they approached her, offering a safe place for the night. Granted, when they said 'safe place,' they meant a group of tents in the woods off I-55, but at least there was shelter. By then, she had considerably calmed down and was sane enough to accept their offer.

The girl was hardened by life, and caution had become a second nature to her. But she couldn't deny such a generous offer, especially when she had nowhere else to go. Besides, hippies were harmless, and seemed like good company, she convinced herself. Secretly, her other reason stemmed from desperation. The run from her adoptive family and the bus ride had left her weary. She needed rest and, more importantly, security. Somehow, she sensed these people could provide both.

The woman who had initially approached her insisted that she be called Mama Priscilla, though she was fairly young and childless. The name fit her, nonetheless, and the girl enjoyed the woman's humorous introduction, "You may call me Mama Pri'zilla. I 'ave no chil'dren, but if you need a ma'ma, I will gladly nag you all night long."

Her husband, Owen, currently sat on a log with a guitar in his lap and clumsily strummed notes to an unidentifiable song. The girl was seated between him and Mama Priscilla, warmed by the fire and their kindness.

"Heya, lil' rogue, what brings you down to the 'Sippi bayou all by your lonesome self?" Owen had a slow, deep voice, raspy from smoking pot. His demeanor was relaxed, and his questions polite, as if he could predict the depressing answer and already sympathized. Without prompting, he shared his own experiences, which comforted the teenage girl, "Me and Mama? We eloped." He grinned, reaching over to pat his wife's slender hand, "Her parents said she wasn't good for me, but I think we know better."

"Mother and Father were a'bout to divorce, but what do zey know? Of mar'riage? Of love, e'ven?" Mama Priscilla had a dreamy French accent, cultured from the lap of luxury. A lot of hippies were like her; rich kids running away from disapproving and disagreeing parents. Owen and Mama Priscilla were no different.

There was no harm telling the truth to them, because they were the same as she—vagabonds…rogues. Though they had yet to hear her story, they already treated her as one of them, and their hospitality and compassion lulled the girl into comfort, "Ah...got adopted. An' didn't know what ta do. Ah was scared o' it all, so Ah ran away."

Owen stopped playing to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she was surprised to realize that the gesture affected her, "It's fine. We've all been scared at many times in our lives. But look at us now, huh? We're all rogues, just like you, and definitely not scared, no more. Maybe something else'll come up, and we'll be scare all over again. But you know what? We'll persevere and come out stronger, like mankind always has." Others around the bonfire nodded agreeably, though most were probably too high to understand what Owen had said.

"Ah don't feel very rogueish." She said sheepishly, holding herself tightly.

"May'be not now, _chère_, but it'z zere." Mama Priscilla hugged her, "Do not fret, lit'tel rogue. We are all ze same here. _Oui_?"

"'We' is the right word, Mama." Owen cheered, strumming once more.

Was it just her, or did music sound better? Perhaps it was a result of her lifted mood, but Owen's song had become warmer and softer, like a lullaby. His music filled her stomach and left her contented and safe.

"So, what's your name, or are we gonna be callin' you 'lil' rogue'?" Owen's fingers danced across the strings, the firelight making them look longer and otherworldly.

She sat there for a moment, feeling the warmth from the fire and Mama Priscilla's arm, draped over her shoulder, and said, "Rogue is fine. Rogue is good."

The edges of Mama's lips lifted into a smile, and a little of the darkness in the girl's heart lifted, too, "Zen, little Rogue, wood you like zome'ting to eat? Zome'ting sweet? I loved zo eat sweet zings when I was your age."

"Ah don't like sweets." The words were out of her mouth before she knew it, but saying it aloud, she knew it was the truth. Briefly, images of apple pie floated through her head, but she quenched them by concentrating on Owen's hands, which fascinated her with their fire-borne illusion.

Mama Priscilla nodded with understanding and went to her tent, returning with an unknown drink. The concoction tasted awful at first but had a wonderful aftertaste. The first sip was bitter, like her heart, and as it slid down her throat, the taste ripened into something rich and foreign. The warmth in her stomach strengthened. When she asked what it was, Mama smiled and said it was a secret.

Cuddling with Mama Priscilla and listening to Owen's warbling voice, she never noticed the tiny light in her heart—a fragile flame of hope. All she felt was Mama's slight but strong embrace and Owen's knee occasionally knocking hers as he swayed to his music. The touch felt wonderful, like a family. A real family, unlike the strangers who had adopted her. Maybe these people would be her family. Her heart was suffocated in winter, but there was a chance for spring, right? And her chest felt a little lighter, too, as if the ghost that was once there was beginning to lift to Heaven.

She sang with them, her voice naturally sliding in the chorus. A passerby might have thought the display not as ear-pleasing, but she—Rogue—felt as if she had never heard a more beautiful sound.

That night, there were no nightmares. She slept nestled between Owen and Mama Priscilla in their tent, safe and welcome. No chewing tobacco, no dresses with diamond collars, and no apple pies. Just the ethereal echo of guitar strings and a romantic French snore, along with the smell of woodsmoke and a mysteriously bitter drink.

_Home_.


	2. Chapter Two: Distortion

**Poison Apple**

**Chapter Two: **Distortion

A/N: So here's the second chapter. I had actually had this thing written out before I'd even published the first chapter, but I wanted to tweak and revise some things (like overall grammar) and remove some of my more stream of conscience-y flaws.

This chapter ended up being way longer than the first, and don't be suprised if the others end up as long. I didn't mean for it to end up so...lengthy.

**CaptMacKenzie**: Yeah, I warned you that it might get a little…drawn out. I've tried extra hard to cut anything like that out of this chapter. **CollossusR**: Yes, it does seem that I'm going down that cliché, doesn't it? Rogue's relationship with Bo and Sarah, in my intentions, are the forces of bad and good on her—Bo, who corrupts Rogue, and Sara, who is so good that Rogue resents her. Later, you'll see how Bo and Sarah affect Rogue—not in her powers but in a different way. **Jess**: I always liked the comic book past, and I feel disappointed that the hippies aren't often used, too. Also, I liked how she had been fluent in French, which I have yet to see in other stories; I used a little of her French in this chapter, but instead of fluent, Rogue is only semi-fluent. **ishandahalf**: Thank you very much! **To everyone**: Thank you for all your reviews!

-/-

_On the occasional nights Bo was impatient, he would drag her out of the orphanage and across the backyard by her arm, moving too fast to give her the chance to stand up and walk herself. If the nights were cold, he took her inside the shed, and tonight was one such night. _

_It was still cold inside, but he didn't care, and as long as Bo didn't care, she wasn't allowed to care. _

_The first thing he always did was his version of foreplay. He'd comb her tussled hair straight and brush the dirt stains off her knees. Then he would adjust her nightgown, which was really just a big, old shirt. She didn't understand why he did this, if he planned on taking it off anyway._

_And then there was the actually crime. She stared over his shoulder, thinking of the homework Miss Maurine has assigned yesterday. She hoped she passed the test. Normally, she was good with that sort of stuff, but she'd been off her game since Sarah's adoption._

"_I love you." He whispered, but she didn't hear him. She was in her safe place now, away from him, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."_

_Bo was apologizing, full of guilt and promising her that he would never, _ever_ do this again. She didn't believe him, because he had told her this every night for the past two weeks. And he had been coming to her more frequently, too. Some nights, he was like this—apologetic, kind, and almost brotherly. Other days, he couldn't go through with the act and would become very angry at her, slapping her or hitting her where no one would see the bruises. Not that he had a very hard punch to begin with, so bruises were never really a worry. _

_Besides, she was in her safe place at those times, and he couldn't touch her there._

_If the beating wasn't enough, he would squeeze her arm so tight that the pain drove her to tears, and he would make her to promise never to tell. Often, he would still squeeze, even after she promised, until she screamed out and he slapped her silent, worried that someone might hear them. _

"_Don't tell no one nuthin', ya got me?"_

_She would nod, because she knew she couldn't. It's not that no one would believe her, but a part of her couldn't handle people knowing the truth. It was stubborn pride; she didn't want people to know the truth, because that would imply she was weak. And the thought of being weak disgusted her more than Bo and his crimes had._

_As she grew older, she convinced herself that she would never be vulnerable like that again, and she strove to prove to this to herself. Perhaps guilt and shame over Sarah's demise prompted—or at least influenced—this, but if it did, she was unaware. Regardless, she willingly sought confrontation, believing that if she could brawl boys and emerge victorious, no one would suspect that, at one point in her life, she had been the loser._

_So when Robbie, some new cocky brat in the orphanage, strolled in and bullied the younger children for their toys and dignity, she decided to step in. This was her first step in proving her strength, and to her utter revulsion, she lost. Robbie pushed her into a mud puddle and laughed at her. _

_Her defeat left her seething in fury. Her second challenge ended very much the same, with the exception of the mud puddle. After a week, she decided to change tactics, encouraged by a crime TV show Missus Ruth had been watching one night. When Robbie was sleeping under a tree after lunch, she hovered over him with a metal butter knife filched from the kitchen. Normally, she wasn't so bold, but tempted by a mix of humiliation, apprehension, and vengeance, she conceded to evil thoughts and stabbed him in the foot. _

_It turned out that she had too little strength to seriously harm him, but Robbie got the message. He didn't mess with anyone after that, though he did send many angry glares her way._

_At first, she was elated and victorious, but once reason had set in, she immediately felt immensely guilty and filthy for allowing herself to be driven so far over the edge. She scolded herself and promised never to repeat the incident. A part of her, the good part, feared that she was insane or psychopathic, and she avoided her fellows for a full week afterwards, afraid that she might somehow enjoy the taste of blood and actively seek it out. She was afraid of turning into a monster._

_When rumor of Robbie's defeat spread (as well as her involvement concerning his bandaged foot), the other children avoided her of their own volition. She was surprised to discover that she enjoyed seeing them, especially the boys, run away from her. Frequently, she imagined Bo in their ranks. A darker side of her imagined her fingers around his throat and choking him, as he had choked her, until he begged for mercy and admitted his crimes._

_She liked to think that there was a sign over her head that said "Don't touch!" When her neighbors heeded the invisible sign, she felt stronger and prouder. She felt untouchable, and she loved it._

-/-

"_Comment s'est passée votre journée d'aujourd'hui? Avez-vous appris quelque chose de nouveau?_"

How was your day today? Did you learn anything new?

"_T…d'apprentissage mauvaises votre…mari comptent goûts musicaux?_"

Does…learning your husband's…bad music taste count?

"_Oui, ma fille, mais pas tout le monde aime ... qui sont-ils? Boxcar Willie et David Allen Poe?_"

Yes, my daughter, but not everyone enjoys…who are they? Boxcar Willie and David Allen Poe?

Rogue smiled fondly at Mama Priscilla and corrected her, stacking a dusty old pillow over their folded sheets, "_Non, David Allen _Coe_, Mamav._" She shook her head in disbelief at Mama's mistake.

"_Mon erreur, ma fille! Je pensais d'Edgar Allen Poe_."

"Huh? Who's 'Edgar Allen Poe'?" In her surprise, Rogue forgot to continue in French.

Mama pressed her lips together and pouted, wagging a disapproving finger, "_Française_."

Rogue ducked her head apologetically, though she also smiled in amusement, "_Oui, madame. Qui…sont 'Edgar Allan Poe'?_"

The Frenchwoman threw her hands up in the air, "_Qui _est, _et non pas qui le sont!" _

Who _is_, not who are!

"_Oui, désolé_." Rogue apologized with an exasperated sigh. Even though it had been five years, she was still prone to little mistakes, which endlessly irritated Mama. The woman was of the understanding that everyone in the world had the talent to speak perfect French and only those without passion made small errors like confusing 'is' and 'are.'

Mama's exasperation was deepened by the level of Rogue's ignorance. To not know the great writer Edgar Allen Poe was a tragedy, though not as much as the time Mama had discovered that Rogue had never read a word of Shakespeare. Now, of course, the girl was well-schooled in his plays—both in English and French translations.

"Forgive me, Mama, but I'd like the conversation to back it up to English. We _are_ in America, after all. You know, land of the free, home of the brave." Owen raised a speculative eyebrow, adjusting the strings on his guitar.

In all her time with the commune, Rogue had only seen him without the guitar only three times, not including when he showered or slept.

"Zorry, my love," Mama Priscilla glided across the room and sat next to him, a hand on his thigh, "We must keep her French skillz sharp. It iz a useful skill to know." Her mischievous eyes flickered between Rogue and Owen and back to Rogue, "Besides, ze men swoon over ze accent. And e'vary woman wishes to make man swoon."

Rogue smiled, appeasing Mama, but she didn't want to disappoint Mama and admit that she had no interest in men. To her, young boys were adorable or annoying, young men were just plain annoying, and older men were either foolish or wise. Besides this, the only other emotion she felt towards men was an unnatural competitiveness. And when they treated her kindly, she surprised the whole commune by treating them with open hostility.

One of the commune boys had beat her in a race and apologized to her, saying that it wasn't fair for him to race her to begin with, "Yor a girl, afta' all. My mama say it ain't nice ta beat girls." His chivalry had been sincere, and perhaps he had also expressed a crush on Rogue.

But in her ears, Rogue had heard a boy gloating over his victory, because he was stronger and faster, and to top it off, he was mocking her. She had immediately responded with a kick between the legs. Everyone assumed he had been bothering her, and Rogue's outburst had gone unpunished. Meanwhile, the young man had sworn he would never bother with girls, again.

"Like how ya landed me, Mama?" Rogue returned to reality, watching Owen lean his head towards Mama's. He was a lanky man, with a scraggly brown beard and equally-messy hair. He had kind, hazel eyes filled with a wisdom that came straight from "God Himself," as Owen would say.

"What are you zaying? Zat only my accent waz plea'zing to you?" Mama made a silly face, hands on her smooth cheeks in false surprise. Then she made a big show of pretending to be furious, though Owen knew better.

Rogue loved the way Mama's words often slurred with 'z' sounds. Mama's foreign appeal only added to her initial attractiveness—long and flowing blond hair, big blue eyes, perfect tanned skin, a perfectly symmetrical face, and the prettiest teeth Rogue had ever seen. Since the time when Rogue was thirteen, Mama had lost her figure to three miscarriages and was slowly adding pounds to her once-voluptuous figure, but she was a lovely woman, regardless.

Three years ago, she had begun to call Rogue her daughter, and Rogue, much to her own amazement, enjoyed the thought. Before that, she had convinced herself that she was almost as lonely in the commune as she had been in the orphanage, with the occasional sunspot of hope and contentment breaking through. But when Mama Priscilla had started calling Rogue '_ma fille_,' Rogue's heart melted completely.

She loved Mama and Owen. They were her parents now. Sure, there were no papers or social workers to make things official, but Owen told her that she didn't need those things.

"We live in a commune, lil' Rogue. We don't follow the Man's rules." 'The Man,' of course, being the government.

"Did I ever tell ya ya look prettier and prettier when ya talk French?"

Mama giggled, once again the girl that he eloped with years ago, "Oh, Owen, you flatter me so! You are a zly dog!"

Rogue slipped out the tent, knowing they needed some time alone. She had a peaceful smile on her face, glad for their banter and their relationship. There was a small part of her, one she had failed to yet acknowledge, that swirled under her contentment in the commune and hatred for defeat, especially at the hands of men. This small part envied Owen and Mama's relationship for herself. Sometimes, Rogue was faintly aware of her jealousy and loneliness, but she would immediately stuff it back down into a corner of her heart. Sure, she was avoiding her problems, but did it matter as long as she was happy?

Ignorance is, indeed, bliss.

"Are 'zoze love'birds at it, agin?" Aunt Carrie stood outside the tent, a mock frown on her face.

"_Oui_." Rogue hung her head, exhaling a fake sigh, and held her hands up helplessly.

She adored Aunt Carrie, Mama's cousin. Aunt Carrie had joined the commune long before Mama had and had been good friends with Owen. At some point in time, the woman had introduced the pair to each other, and a love like no other was born. When Mama's parents, rich foreign socialites, tried to break the relationship, the couple fled to the commune, where they weren't judged by social classes.

Aunt Carrie had the same accent as Mama, but that was where the similarities ended. She had a willowy figure and, unlike Mama's love for long hair, favored a short, almost boyish haircut, which was silver, rather than blond. Her eyes were dark hazel, oozing warmth like coffee on a cold morning, and shone with more than just kindness—justice, bravery, strength, and caring. Rogue admired Aunt Carrie for her independence, because she was a woman who never needed anything done for her, much less by a man. And like Rogue, Aunt Carrie equally detested defeat, further immortalizing her as Rogue's heroine.

It had been Aunt Carrie's idea to teach Rogue French, and her tutelage had begun less than a month after she joined the commune. Aunt Carrie also kept up her education, teaching Rogue more than she had ever learned in the orphanage. Though she wasn't a Calculus major, at least Rogue could _do_ basic math equations, which was a lot compared to her neighbors. Most of the children in the commune had never gone to a school, and a few grew to adulthood without knowing their multiplication tables.

Aunt Carrie shook her head, pretending to disapprove, "Zey need to have zome restraint zome'times. Zey are…" Educated as she was, her English was not as broad as Mama's, "Nevermind. Have you made ze pos'terz?" Mama and Aunt Carrie had a slow, romantic way of speaking. They emphasized every syllable in a word, turning the simple word 'posters' into 'pos'terz.' And their voices had a cadence to them—slow, then fast for a beat, then slow again.

It was beautiful, and Rogue wished she could have a dreamy voice like that.

"_Oui_, Aunt Carrie." Aunt Carrie had a requirement that Rogue speak only French in her presence, to help her sharpen her conversational skills, but lately Aunt Carrie had been lax. The coming protest was distracting her, and Rogue could understand why. "Aunt Carrie," She shuffled and shifted her feet, remembering in the back of her head that the posters were in the tent behind her, with Owen and Mama Priscilla and now wasn't the best time to intrude, "What are 'Morlocks,' exactly? An' what happen'd to 'em?"

Aunt Carrie might have reprimanded Rogue for using English, but like Rogue had already noted, her aunt hadn't been as strict of late. Ignoring Rogue's failure to speak in her native tongue, she gazed sadly into the sky, as if praying God could grant her assistance, "Zey are mutants. Poor creaturez who 'ave been made fun of and kicked into ze sewers like trash. Zey are treated worse zen other mutants because zey have…unde'zirable fea'tures. Ze people treat zem like monz'ters, but zey are as human as you or _moi_! And zome are children! _Garçons et filles_, Rogue! Zey cannot control what zey are! We must alert ze people of zis…injuz'tice! Maybe if zey knew ze truth, ze will ztop. Many people treat zem zo because zey are scared. We must let zem see the truth."

Aunt Carrie had a powerful voice and would have probably made a great politician or spokesperson. But here in the commune, protesting for what she believed—_knew —_was right was where she belonged. And Rogue admired her all the more for it. She wanted to be strong like Aunt Carrie, and she promised herself she would make a dozen more signs, bigger than the rest, to help the cause.

Rogue would help any way she could, because she believed in Aunt Carrie, and if Aunt Carrie believed this was right, why shouldn't Rogue? She had never met a mutant and had no idea what one looked like, but she was willing to defend the helpless, and from Aunt Carrie's descriptions, these mutants sounded very helpless.

_Like how you defended Sarah from Bo, right?_

Rogue pushed away the nasty thought without a mental glance over a mental shoulder, though the weight in her chest seemed heavier for it. She would deny it, ignore it, and pretend it never happened. She was happy here, and ignorance was bliss.

If she dared dwell on the past, then everything would be ruined—she believed in that thought, like she believed in Aunt Carrie.

-/-

Ever since the Morlock existence had become publicly known, surges of mobs had risen against the 'mutant threat.' Protests against mutants ranged from the doorstep of the Capitol Building to the internet. Mutants, people endowed with unnatural powers and abilities, became the minority of the world. Few people regarded the mutants as human beings and demanded either control or annihilation.

"Mutants will kill us all!" was a popular saying among mutant-fearing humans.

The commune made a point to oppose The Man's oppression, and since The Man was currently against mutants, the hippies were for them.

The drive from Caldecott County was short, only an hour, but to Rogue, it felt like an eternity. Their destination was the Jackson City Courthouse, where a trial against a Morlock was supposed to be taking place. Supposedly, the Morlock had attacked some men at a train yard, though it was common suspicion that such was not the case.

Rogue admitted to herself, almost guiltily, that she was kind of excited. She had never participated in the previous protests, always being reduced to babysitting the children at the commune's camp. But Aunt Carrie had deemed Rogue a woman, now, and allowed her to join the throng.

"Ze _fille_'s name iz Tommy. She zaid she was lea'ving Loz Angeles because she was attacked by strange men. She zen took a train to New York Zity, but when it stopped here, she was caught and attacked by ze mob!" Aunt Carrie flailed her sign above her head, screaming her beautiful voice ragged. She looked like a glorified goddess, on the courthouse steps, pleading to the people below her, "Zis is unfair to mutants! Zey are people, too! Zey have names and loverz and familiez, just like us! Zey have committed no crime! Let zem free! Let Tommy free!"

The hippies joined Aunt Carrie, shouting and demanding righteous justice. Rogue felt herself pulled by the crowd, and her voice was one with theirs. She wasn't sure right now if she believed the same thing, but when everyone around her screamed with such passion and fervor, she felt herself tugged along in their current. She no longer thought about what a mutant looked like; she saw them the same way she saw poor, mistreated animals. Anim—mutants didn't deserve to be tossed around like trash.

Rogue imagined this girl Tommy as a pathetic, street cat. An ear was chewed out by other cats, and her eyes were dull with hunger and sickness. Her bones stuck out from her thin, matted fur, and she would yowl a creepy and weak sound that seemed to cause her pain. Rogue loved cats, and imagining this mutant girl as an alley cat strengthened her shaky resolve.

Rogue hated people who hurt alley cats just for being…cats. And this situation was no different. Tommy was being condemned for being born, for merely _existing_, though the court case was technically a matter of assault.

The protesters shouted louder and stronger as a line of cars pulled forward. The commune members, as well as some bystanders pulled into the mob's passion, surrounded the vehicles, demanding justice be served properly. They beat on the windows and hoods of the cars, slandering the despicable men inside who refused to face them. These were the people who had accused the Morlock of attacking them, and they stared at the crowd, through the car windows, with the superior eyes of the self-righteous. Rogue saw this and became angrier, punching the hood of a sedan over and over again and glaring at the cowards inside.

These men not only thought they were doing the right thing, but these monsters expected congratulations and praise for it. Rogue could read it on their smug faces.

Behind her, policemen were emerging to control the crowd. One officer grabbed Rogue around the waist and dragged her away from the sedan. In her fury, she fought against the policewoman holding her, calling the officer names and French profanities. Once the crowd had been pushed behind a wall of officers, the people inside were allowed to emerge.

Rogue only saw their victorious smirks, as if they knew they would already win this battle. One young man even had the audacity to wave at her, throwing her a wink and blowing her a kiss. Rogue felt revulsion shiver down her spine; she hated men who bragged over their victories before the game had even begun.

Newspeople Rogue had previously failed to notice immediately swarmed the young man and those around him, asking about their confidence concerning the trial. From the shouts aimed at the young man, Rogue discerned that he was the poster boy of the group—the young hero bent on defending the human race from the mutant atrocity.

One newswoman shoved a microphone in the man's face, almost hitting him in the jaw. "This is Cathy Kline from Channel 13 News. Joel Danvers, your group is accusing a mutant girl for attacking you and your friends in the city's train yard, yet the defense claims that you attacked her first, attempted to rape her, and then beat her when your efforts failed. How do you respond?"

"The defense don't know what they're talkin' 'bout, ma'am." The young man—Joel—assured the newswoman, "That bitch came up and tried ta use her powers and kill us! So we defended ourselves! Maybe we got a little rough fightin' back, but it was all in self-defense. Besides, who wants ta have sex with an ugly mutant? That's ridiculous! I think what the people should be thinkin' 'bout is how dangerous these mutants are! She tried to kill us, and here are idiots tryin' ta defend her. Well, you know what I think?" He grinned at the crowd of protestors, "No mutants! No mutants! No mutants!" His friends pumped their fists in the air, chanting with him, and a few confused protestors joined, as well.

Though the newswoman, and her viewers, saw a hero, Rogue saw a monster—a young man who tried to rape an innocent girl and felt he shouldn't be punished for it. Joel Danvers made Rogue sick to her stomach, as well as incredibly furious with hatred. These people, these…these…

Rogue struggled against the wall of policemen separating her from the young man and his group, "You aren't human. You people are the monsters! You treat girls like toys and rape them just because they look different? Just because they can do something we can't? You are a disgusting _fils de pute_! _Tu preferais pas baiser un cadaver, pédé_?" She didn't need to look behind her to know it was Mama Priscilla who was gasping at the horrendous insult.

Some of the men waggled their eyebrows at her, clearly enjoying her outburst. One commented that he would love to hear her repeat it, but before Rogue could, a hand was clamped over her mouth.

It was Aunt Carrie, her mouth set in a grim line, "Do not waste my language on zese diz'gusting 'tings. A beau'tiful language should not be waz'ted on ugly earz."

Rogue blushed with shame, but she was surprised that Aunt Carrie wasn't scolding her for her inappropriate language. Owen and the other commune members frowned on bad language, promoting pace and brotherhood instead, but Mama Priscilla and Aunt Carrie were often allowed to slide as long as the commune members didn't understand what they were saying. Thanks to the French sisters, Rogue had cultivated a penchant for French insults, which she found far more colourful than the English ones.

"Zome'times, little Rogue, you need to learn to spare ze insults to a language zey understand. Men will not be in'zulted when you tell zem to have sex with a corpse if zey do not know what you are say'ying." Aunt Carrie smiled grimly, and Rogue returned the expression, "Now, let us show zese men zat zey are in ze wrong."

Right after Aunt Carrie said this, another vehicle pulled in before the courthouse. An officer opened the door, and a young girl, probably no older than Rogue, stepped out. The girl's face was contorted in fear and apprehension, but no one was paying attention to her obvious dread. Tommy the Morlock's appearance took Rogue's breath away, and everyone else around her was equally stunned. Even the reporters were astounded by her appearance.

Morlocks, according to rumours, were supposed to be hideous, but Tommy was anything but. In fact, she had a gorgeous face and figure. Her hair was a curious medley of blond and blue and pink, pulled into a clumsy ponytail, and her skin was striped with the same colours. She wore an orange prison jumper, which clashed horrendously with her strange skin and long hair. Tommy the Morlock was not ugly, but she was…unnatural.

This was not the alley cat Rogue had envisioned. She had imagined a girl with sallow skin, a curled lip, and maybe even buck teeth or a lazy eye. She had expected a human deformity, something easy to feel pity for. Her first impression was surprise and curiosity, but when Rogue looked into Tommy's miserable eyes, she recognized the agony the girl was going through.

Maybe not an alley cat, but this mutant—this girl—was still something to be pitied. She was going through Hell, like Rogue had, that horrible time nine years ago. This girl, with her fragile face and delicate features, would have been attractive were she human. But she wasn't, as she was being punished for it.

Rogue couldn't relate to being different, but she could relate to a girl who had undergone torture at the hands of despicable men. She knew what it was like, being cornered and threatened and beaten for resisting. Unbidden memories of Bo flashed in her head, and for a moment, she swore she could feel his big hand on her arm, pulling her into the darkness behind the garden shed once more. But instead of feeling fear well in her stomach, Rogue felt anger and defiance. She wasn't going to hide inside herself and pretend nothing was happening; Rogue was going to fight back, this time.

Someone Rogue recognized from the commune raised a wooden sign and whacked three policemen with it.

The entire crowd suddenly collapsed into chaos. People attacked the officers with their signs and bare hands, reaching for their guns and nightsticks. Rogue, knowing her part in Aunt Carrie's plan, dodged an advancing hippie, who swung his sign and knocked out two officers in the policeman wall. She searched for Aunt Carrie, jostling through the crowd and down the courthouse steps. The uprising had been planned by Aunt Carrie, but she had warned Rogue that it would quickly rise out of control.

"You must leave quick'ly, be'cauz when humanz become a mob, zey can alzo become mon'sterz. For your…health, return to ze van. Az quick'ly az you can. And not ma'ter what, do not let your'zelf become part of zem."

People were screaming, and a pop echoed in the sky, starling Rogue. More pops followed, but the crowd only became more enraged. Women were tearing at each other's hair for no reason, and a child cried in the background, barely heard in the disorder. Rogue was hot with adrenaline, and she suffered a small urge to add her anger to the mob.

Aunt Carrie grabbed Rogue's hand, "Do not he'zitate, _chére_!"

Owen appeared behind Rogue, pushing her forward, "Come on, lil' rogue!" Next thing she knew, Owen was jostling her inside his van, and Mama Priscilla jumped into the driver's seat, shifting the car into gear and peeling away.

The tires squealed loudly, but Rogue doubted anyone outside could hear it above the even louder spray of gunfire. Her face blanched; people were being shot there. Who? Were the other hippies alright? What about the mutant girl? Or that disgusting Joel Danvers?

Rogue hoped, with too much fervour, that he would get a well-earned bullet in the chest.

"What's goin' on here? Why're ya helpin' me?" A Jersey accent interrupted Rogue from thinking crueller thoughts, and when she turned around to face the source, she met the frightened eyes of the mutant girl Tommy.

-/-

Aunt Carrie said that they couldn't return to the commune camp, not with Tommy their van. The police would check there, first. So she had instructed Mama Priscilla to drive them onto I-49 and head east.

"I don't know why ya helpin' me, but t'ank you." Tommy explained to them, hugging her knees tightly, "I was in a big fix back dere, all cuz I'ma mutant. It…it was ho'ible. An' not fay'r! I only wanted ta go home! I din't want no troible!" She stopped, her last words stumbling into tears.

Pitying the mutant girl, she offered her shoulder to Tommy, and the girl grabbed her immediately around the waist, sobbing hysterically. Despite her appearance, Tommy felt like a normal girl. Her skin wasn't furry or scaly (to Rogue's relief); her hair was oily and needed a shower, and some clumps smelled singed. Rogue's hair, too, got oily when she forgot to take a bath and burned when exposed to flame (though Rogue had no idea what kind of situation Tommy had endured that would lead to such), and her skin didn't feel any different than Tommy's.

Rogue considered the difference between Tommy and her as the difference between a white and black person, except that Tommy was a…rainbow person.

"It's okay, lil' sprinkles." Owen had told Tommy she reminded him of rainbow sprinkles, and just as he called Rogue 'lil' rogue,' he had begun to call Tommy 'lil' sprinkles.' "You're safe with us now. We're gonna bring you back home, where you belong. We're not gonna let the Man get you."

At a gas station, they discreetly switched vans with an old man and his wife Rogue did not recognize.

There was a blond wig and a change of clothes inside the new van. Tommy was discreetly smuggled inside, where she donned a big jacket over a long-sleeved shirt and pants. At Tommy's request, Mama cut her hair as short as Aunt Carrie's, and then Tommy pulled the blond wig over her head. As long as the collar of her jacket was turned up and most of her face wrapped in a thick muffler, people wouldn't recognize her as a mutant.

Rogue briefly wished she had her own change of clothes, but she understood that Tommy's well-being was of greater concern right now. The mutant girl's safety mattered more than Rogue's cleanliness. Besides, Rogue's case wasn't half as bad as Owen's, who has in a desperate need for a shower; she suspected that the odor was emanating from his beard, but she didn't want to discover what was hidden in its dangled depths that smelled so foul.

Aunt Carrie sat in the passenger seat while Owen drove. Rogue, Mama Priscilla, Tommy, and two other commune members—Flower and Rick—stayed in the back. There were no back seats, so the five were forced to endure sore butts and elbows as they bounced into each other.

"Do ya regret cuttin' off all yer hair?" Rogue didn't mean to pry, but her curiosity was piqued.

Mama frowned disapprovingly and was about to scold Rogue, but to everyone's surprise, Tommy smiled weakly and said, "Yoi're aunt is a stwong poi'san. I t'ot dat maybe if I cut off all my hair, I could start bein' stwong, too." And indeed, the Morlock had calmed down quite a bit since they switched vans. Though her pretty pink eyes still drooped sadly, she no longer fell into bouts of uncontrollable tears.

Tommy had already explained her situation to them in better detail—the truth behind the outrageous court case filed against her. Hearing her story, Rogue felt anger bubble in the pit of her stomach, as well as a need to protect Tommy, who they learned was only seventeen. One year younger than Rogue, but still too young to deserve any of this.

"My friends an' I lived in da Alley our whole lives with the Moi'locks. I was b'oin down dere, but some o' us were taken in afta' der parents an' families kicked 'em out. Dey would tell me da soi'face world was a hoy'rible place, full o' evil, but some of dem would also talk about how beautiful it was. I've never seen Central Park durin' Christmas, but I hoi'd it was goi'geous. An' I wanted ta see dat for myself. I wanted an adventure; nothing in'trestin' eva' happened in da Alley, anyway, so two years ago, my friends an' I packed up an' left."

"Ya left?" Rogue echoed, wondering why she would deliberately leave her safe haven. Why trade that for the Hell of the human world, where she would be prejudiced and discriminated against? Sure, living in the sewers probably wasn't Heaven on Earth, but at least she had a family—and a blood-related one, to boot—and friends who cared for her.

At one point in time, Rogue would have killed for that.

"I wanted some'ting exciting, ya know? So we toi'ed da country. San Diego, Chicago, and even Washington, D.C. We stayed in hidin', but I t'ot it was adventurous. It was fun, just like I t'ot it'd be. Sure, money was tight, an' we couldn't get jobs 'cause we were mutants, but we made it through...somehow." Tommy's voice was guilty, as if implying that 'somehow' entailed more than she was willing to let on, "But last week, some guys coi'nered us in Las Vegas. Dey...dey killed everyone. I managed ta get away, an' I made it as far as L.A. before dey caught up ta me. Den...Richard..." She choked, her face wrenching in pain, "He tried ta help me, but dey shot him. I don't know what happen'd ta him afta', 'cause he told me ta jump ona train and get away. I wanted ta stay, but..."

Rogue patted Tommy's shoulder and drew her close, hugging her. Dimly, in the back of her mind, Rogue wished that someone had been there to give her this same comfort when she had been a child, but the past couldn't be changed. And Tommy needed her right now.

Regardless of her sorrow, Tommy pressed on, clenching her hands in Rogue's shirt, "When da train stopped in Jackson, I went ta da bathroom. It was late, an' I didn't tink anyone saw me, but den dose guys came outta nowhere. Dey were gonna hurt me, I cou'd tell, so I tried ta split. But dey pinned me down an' beat me an' tried ta—"

At this, Rogue knew it was best to shush her, "It's okay, Tommy. Yor safe now. We're gonna keep ya safe an' bring ya home."

Aunt Carrie affirmed this with a generous smile, looking over her shoulder at the two young women, "You are a brave _fille_, Tommy. We will bring you home. I promize."

Tommy was too shaken to voice her thanks, but her rescuers didn't need to hear it aloud. They knew she was grateful, and that was more than enough to convince them that this was the right thing to do.

-/-

Rogue awoke suddenly, feeling the sharp jab of asphalt on her bare back. Her body felt incredibly hot and pulsed with a buzzing sensation she couldn't understand. Also, her head hurt, and every little noise seemed dull and thick to her ears. She groaned, rolled on her side, and cried out in agony. Her arm burned, and she clutched it with her hand. Her touch only increased the pain.

When she lifted her hand to her face, she found it smeared with blood. Somehow, the blood returned some of her focus, and Rogue realized the buzzing sensation was an extreme ache in her muscles. She was sore all over, as if she had just run a mile and then flung herself off a cliff.

With closer inspection, Rogue noticed that the blood on her hand and arm was dry. She supposed the red fluid had originated from her arm, which was decorated with multiple gashes. Bits of glass were stuck in her skin, the injuries slowly bleeding; that was where Rogue had grabbed her arm with her hand, disturbing the imbedded glass and reopening her clotted wounds.

She was in a driveway, sprawled on the ground next to a truck. The engine was running, but what should have been a roar was muted and low, as if someone had taken a remote and turned the volume down. The driver's door was open to her, but the vehicle was empty. Had Rogue fallen out of the car? Most likely, she had. But why would she be driving a truck? And where was she?

Pain spiked in her head as she tried to remember…nothing. She couldn't remember anything. She dimly called a boy's voice, but Rogue couldn't place the owner, no matter how hard she tried to remember. She tried harder to remember, but her head pounded harder and made her cry out.

Rogue shifted, with great effort, into a sitting position. She held her shaking hands before her, confused and terrified of the unknown that faced her. Why was there blood on her hands? Where was she? What was going on here?

"What happened tah me?"


	3. Chapter Three: Friendship

**Poison Apple**

**Chapter Three: **Friendship

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys!

-/-

Pulling her hair into a loose ponytail and controlling the steering wheel with her knees, Rogue watched Tommy out of the corner of her eye. The mutant certainly looked...normal in her disguise, but Rogue strangely found her disguise more curious than her natural appearance. Maybe she had become unwittingly accustomed to the first glimpse she had had of Tommy—her long hair and skin multicolored like sherbet yogurt.

"How did those mo—guys manage to throw ya in court?" She had almost called them monsters, because in her heart, Rogue knew that's what they were. They, and that cocky young man, didn't deserve to be called humans.

The others were asleep in the back, and Tommy, seated in the passenger side, should have been, as well, but Rogue sensed that the girl was restless. She didn't blame the mutant; Rogue was, too.

For a few seconds, she received no reply, and Rogue wondered if she had guessed wrong. Perhaps Tommy was asleep. Rogue couldn't blame her for that, either, because it had been a long day. They had driven practically non-stop today and all day yesterday, as well, but New York was still four or five hours away.

"Someone hoi'd da commotion an' called a cop. When he pulled dem offa me an' realized who—what—I was, he had dis look on his face, like he regretted savin' me." She didn't move, her face directed towards her window and the passing landscape, "When I told him that dey tried ta...hurt me, da cop told me he didn't see nuthin' an' said I was unda' arrest for distoi'bin' da peace. Me—I was bein' arrested, not dem."

Anger burned white-hot in Rogue, but she bit back an outburst and instead held the steering wheel until her knuckles turned paper white.

"Afta' a night in da pound, dose guys sued me fo' attackin' dem. Dey said dey were mindin' der own business, an' I had come along an' ambushed dem outta da blue. Dey claimed," Her voice was bitter on the word 'claimed,' "Dat I had used my powers on dem, and dey were only defendin' demselves."

"But they were braggin' to a reporter right before ya came that they had been the ones who started the fight!" Rogue glared at the road and imagined running over Joel Danvers and his friends. Again and again and again—she knew they deserved it.

Tommy nodded sadly, "Everyone knew da truth. But nobody cared. I was a mutant, an' dat was more than enuf ta convict me. It don't matta' dat I can't use my powa' ta hurt people or nuthin'. I'm a mutant, an' dat's a crime ta begin with."

The exact mutant issue, especially concerning Tommy's powers, had been avoided, mostly because Rogue hadn't wanted to pry. But now, after Tommy had spilled so much, Rogue wondered of she was able to push the other girl just a little further.

"Speakin' of powers, what kinda power did ya have?" Trying to appear casual, Rogue peered in her mirror and out at the road, as if preparing to switch driving lanes.

This time, Rogue was met with a silence she knew Tommy didn't plan on alleviating. She had pushed her luck too far, and Tommy pretended to be asleep, avoiding the embarrassing situation.

Inwardly scolding herself, Rogue kept driving in silence.

-/-

"Whatcha think?" Rogue posed with an "I Love NY" baseball hat perched on her head. She shut the sliding door behind her and sat next to Tommy, handing the girl a bag of chips.

"Charmin'. I t'ink da Big Apple becomes ya." Tommy opened the bag with a grin and chewed on a chip, "I didn't know ya hippies liked dis stuff. I t'ot ya were all fo' Motha' Nature an' livin' only off what ya get from 'er."

Smiling slyly, Rogue put a finger on her lips, "Don't tell 'em, 'kay? 'Specially Aunt Carrie. Ah don't mind livin' off the land, but that don't mean Ah don't miss the good stuff in life."

They shared the bag between them, enjoying the salty taste. Their meals thus far had always consisted of boxes of assorted fruit—apples, oranges, and pears—and water jugs. The chips were a nice change. Rogue had managed to scrounge some change from an unsupervised tip jar at their last stop. She didn't regret her theft or its eventual prize, but she had no plans on bragging to Tommy on how she'd managed to afford the chips.

The girls giggled together, passing the bag between them. As the chips exchanged hands, Tommy's hand brushed against Rogue's. Almost involuntarily, Tommy snapped her hand back and apologized.

"Sorry."

"Why're ya sayin' sorry?"

At first, Rogue merely stared at the other girl in confusion, then realization dawned on her. Tommy was a mutant, of course, and she was under the assumption that people hated to touch her. Maybe this was true for other people, but not for Rogue.

Rogue dropped the bag of chips and grabbed Tommy's multicolored hand with her flesh-colored one, "Don't 'sorry' me, Tommy. Your skin ain't poison, and it sure ain't a crime." For a moment, Rogue was distracted by how human Tommy's hand felt. In fact, if Rogue wasn't looking at their joined hands, she would probably not be able to differentiate the mutant's hands with a human's, "See? Ah sure ain't sorry tah hold hands, so don't ya apologize. You're mah friend, after all."

The word 'friend' struck a chord in Tommy. No human had called her a friend before. Surprising herself, Tommy began to cry; she had not realized how much she had wished for a friend at this point in her life, when all her others were dead or out of reach.

Rogue opened her arms, allowing Tommy to cry on her shoulder once more.

-/-

Aunt Carrie and the other adults were inside the van, arguing over a map of New York. Their destination was New York City, but their dilemma was about choosing the route. Owen believed in a straightforward drive, but Aunt Carrie wanted to exercise caution, in case the state police were on the lookout for them. The group had, after all, taken Tommy from the courthouse—they were either labeled kidnappers or accomplices to a fugitive (the fugitive being Tommy).

Down the street, Rogue waited in line for hotdogs from a silly-faced vendor. Her arms full of piping-hot hotdogs, she thanked the vendor and steered back towards the parked van. She passed an electronics store, its windows heavily occupied by televisions of varying sizes.

Her face was featured on every screen.

Albeit, the picture was fairly inaccurate—her nose was too large, her eyes too wide and sunken in, and her hair too...wild. Honestly, Rogue felt insulted that her depiction, if it could really be called such, was so incorrect. She looked like a crazy forest lady and was surprised that the artist hadn't drawn leaves and a bird's nest in her hair. Beside her picture were Owen's, Mama Priscilla's, Flower's, and Aunt Carrie's. Underneath the rough sketches was the title 'WANTED: FUGITIVES.' A newsman appeared and reported that the pictures were depictions of the criminals who aided in the escape of a "dangerous and violent mutant."

On one hand, Rogue was confident that no one would be able to identify them by those sketches, which were plain horrible, but on the other hand, the sheer reality that she was now a fugitive was frightening. This wasn't drunk driving or a minor crime that awarded a simple slap on the hand and maybe a night in jail; this was serious. Rogue realized that all of them could go to prison for helping Tommy. For life.

Rogue suddenly felt like someone had chained weights to her ankles. She had been deluding herself, repeatedly, that this trip was simply a fun adventure, but it wasn't.

"_If anyone can provide any information regarding these criminals, please contact this number immediately. And remember that these people are armed and dangerous."_

Armed with what? Hotdogs?

"Do not worry." Aunt Carrie said as soon as Rogue relayed what she had seen, "Az long az we are careful."

Tommy looked miserable. At first, she had been so excited to almost be home, but the recent news had sobered her. Rogue noticed this and offered Tommy a hotdog, which she refused. The mutant girl was strangely sullen, but Rogue couldn't guess why. The news report hadn't been all that bad, after the shock had sunken in. A little apprehension was maybe understandable, but shouldn't Tommy be excited to almost be home? The mutant, noticing Rogue's concerned stare, smiled, and though she returned it, Rogue was reluctant to brush off her concern.

Aunt Carrie turned on the van and shifted into gear. Everyone endured a frightening (and embarrassing) moment of Aunt Carrie almost rear-ending the car parked behind them, and she laughed nervously while switching to the correct gear. The mood lightened a little, and the adults shared the route they had plotted to Brooklyn, which rejuvenated the exhausted runaways.

Rogue stuffed a hotdog in her face, swaying with the constant start-stops of the van (New York traffic was apparently as bad as Jackson's), "But why Brooklyn?"

"On o' da entrances is dere." Tommy explained, her arms wrapped around her knees.

Personally, Rogue preferred Owen's suggested route—straight and directly into Brooklyn. But Aunt Carrie was cautious and preferred a long and wandering drive, and the revelation of the news report had only reinforced her wariness. She hoped that a circuitous path around Brooklyn might throw off any suspicion, if there was any directed their way.

Owen severely disagreed. After hearing the news report's inaccuracy, he was convinced that they needed to reach Brooklyn as fast as possible. Leaving themselves out in the open too long only increased their odds of discovery, in his opinion.

"Think about it, Scary." Owen leaned back in the passenger seat, still miffed with his defeat, "We're in New York. We're one of a million vans, and if anyone was following us, they'd sic the Man on us already."

Aunt Carrie hated Owen's nickname, and the glare she threw at him made Rogue wonder how the two had ever become friends at all. Mama, sensing a possible conflict, put a hand on each of their shoulders. She rubbed them, smiling quietly. Owen immediately retreated into contentment, but Aunt Carrie wasn't as easily calmed.

"Ze trip iz strez'ful on uz all, Carrie. Maybe zome'one elze must drive?"

Aunt Carrie shook her head and kept driving. Rogue, at closer inspection, noticed the circles under Aunt Carrie's eyes. The teenager had been so caught up in her own world that she had never noticed how the adults around her were being affected. Mama and Owen looked just as tired as Aunt Carrie; Flower and Rick were no different.

They had to stop an hour later for gas. Mama and Rogue paid the clerk with their last rations of cash.

"Will we have enough tah get down, Mama?" Rogue passed a tempted glance at a bag of potato chips as they left the store.

Mama wrapped an arm around Rogue's shoulders, humming sweetly, "What, _ma fille_?"

"How are we goin' back home?" Rogue repeated, suspicion pooling in her stomach. What if…

Mama's sympathetic look confirmed it. They weren't going home.

The older woman hugged Rogue, "We are fugitives. You zaw on ze T.V. zat we can'not go home." She held her daughter tighter, "Forgive uz."

"Wait a minute. You're not answerin' mah question." Rogue stared up at Mama, "Ah don't regret comin' with ya, Mama, but what are we gonna do after we get Tommy home? Ain't we goin' home, too?"

Mama didn't answer.

"What happen'd tah the commune? Is everyone else alright?"

As she dropped her arms from Rogue's shoulders, Mama forced a pained smile.

Rogue grabbed Mama's arms, gripping so tightly that her knuckles turn white, "Mama? What happened Mama?"

The woman wasn't crying, but Mama's eyes glistened with the threat of tears. She gently hugged her adoptive daughter once more. Then she kissed the top of Rogue's head, smiled sadly, and returned to the van, leaving a confused Rogue in her wake.

-/-

The closer they drew to New York, the worse the mood became. Rogue realized now that the adults were hiding something from her. What it was, she could only guess, but she suspected that the commune might be involved. Tommy had grown introverted, as well. Perhaps being so close to home made her anxious, but Rogue felt jilted by Tommy's distance. Rogue herself needed some comfort, at the moment, but she didn't want to be selfish right now, when Tommy should matter most.

Tommy's unease finally climaxed at a stoplight a few miles outside Brooklyn. It was nighttime, and few people wandered the barely-lit streets. As soon as the van cruised to a creaky stop, Tommy flung the sliding door open and jumped outside, wrapped in her trench coat and wig. Rogue sat inside the van, frozen with surprise, and stared dumbly at Tommy's quickly-retreating figure.

"_Chere_," Aunt Carrie peered at Rogue with sorrowed eyes, "She needz you. Don't sit; chase her."

Shaking her head quickly, Rogue leapt outside the van and sprinted after Tommy. The mutant had not fled far and waited inside a fenced-in basketball court, mournfully staring at the rusted hoop.

"Tommy?" Rogue panted, hands on her knees. The night air was surprisingly sharp and cold, a contrast to Mississippi's stuffy humidity.

Tommy didn't answer, her gaze intensely trained on the basketball hoop.

"Tommy?"

Rogue reached out for Tommy's shoulder, but the mutant easily slipped away. Finally, Tommy turned her gaze to Rogue, eyes filled with familiar sorrow. But this time, guilt and determination mingled in her expression, as well.

"Dis is where we part, Rogue."

Rogue took a step backward, blinking, "Wha-what?"

"Sorry. It was a fun run, but we—"

"What'dya mean it's a 'fun run'?" Rogue exploded, suddenly angry and hurt, though she didn't fully understand why. She reached for Tommy's hand, but the mutant girl backed away.

"I can't take you guys with me past dis point. It's against our rules. Plus, you're all wanted by da law. Keepin' me around is only gonna increase your chances o' gettin' caught."

"Rules?"

"Da Moi'locks have rules against bringin' humans unda'ground."

Rogue caught Tommy's shoulders and shook her, "That's not the reason, Tommy! Don't gimme a stupid reason like that." She pushed herself away from Tommy, snorting in disgust, "Ah thought we were friends." Her body shaking with both despair and anger, Rogue turned on her heel, back towards Tommy, "Ah should've at least deserved something better than 'it's against the rules.'"

She began to walk away, clenching her teeth tighter and tighter the further she separated from Tommy. Before she had realized it yet, tears were streaming down Rogue's cheeks. Her chest ached as if every heartbeat was a nail being pounded into her flesh. She couldn't believe Tommy was stopping her; Rogue had honestly believed they were friends. Didn't Tommy want to be friends? Or was it simply convenient for the mutant to act nicely to her rescuers?

"Tom—" Rogue whirled around, desperately regretting her harsh words, despite the pain of Tommy's betrayal.

But no one stood in the basketball court. Rogue ran back to the court, panting and calling the mutant girl's name. She received no answer but continued to call until her voice warped into a throaty wail. Tommy never replied, and the only other person Rogue saw was a sleepy addict, twitching and muttering about his next fix.

Aunt Carrie came along ten minutes later, finding Rogue kneeling on the ground and pounding the concrete with her fists.

The older woman grabbed Rogue's hands, her eyes pleading, "Calm your'zelf, _chere_. Forgive me. I thought you could stop 'er."

Rogue sobbed, but ashamed of her tears, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. This only aggravated her face, making her eyes and skin burn red, "Ah—Aunt Carrie, Ah didn't think she'd really leave. Ah told her—"

"Shush." Aunt Carrie, eyes sad, put a finger on Rogue's lips, "Zere iz nothing we can do anymore. Zis iz 'er choice, not yours. Let 'er be." She intertwined her fingers with Rogue's, "Let 'er be, _chere_."

Though Rogue was initially reluctant, she relented and allowed Aunt Carrie to lead her back to the van. To the van and to the unknown future that lay before them. A future that, Rogue now knew, did not include the commune.

If mutants like Tommy were supposed to be the ones being persecuted and tortured, why was it that Rogue felt as if she had lost the most in the process?

-/-

"_911, please state your emergency?"_

"Don't let the pink sparks eat the cards! They're gonna teach the cards to fly and make catfish dinner! Stop the monsters! Please help the rainbow or else the sparks are gonna turn her to catfish!"

"_Ma'am? Ma'am, what are you talking about?"_

"_Please!_ The sparks are making the catfish! Make them go away!"

"_Where are you, ma'am? What is your emergency? Is a building on fire?"_

The cellphone glowed pink, and Rogue screamed, flinging it away and watching it burst into billions of shattering pieces. The shards glittered and buzzed, growing wings and flying away, away, away. Into the sky. Then they turned around and flew straight at Rogue, pelting her skin and turning her clothes pink.

Too pink. Sparks pink.

Rogue tore off her shirt and ran away from it. The sparks chased her, shaped like evil-eyed fish with long, poisonous whiskers.

"_We gonna eat some gumbo afta' dis, boys!"_ The catfish yowled, extending their glowing pink, _"Get 'im!"_

Why was she running so slow? Or was the road moving backwards, dragging her towards the catfish?

A truck across the street was talking to her in a loud grumble, _"Come 'ere, ma petite! I gonna take care o' you. I won' let 'em hurt ya, chere."_

"Aunt Carrie?" Rogue cried, veering towards the truck, "Aunt Carrie! Help me!"

"_I'm here, chere. Come 'ere."_

The truck was locked, so she broke a window with her elbow, apologizing to Aunt Carrie.

But the truck didn't reprimand her and instead released a shout to combat the catfish, _"Get away! Get away from ma chere, you nasty fish! I'll make gumbo outta ya!"_

Rogue opened the door and jumped inside, panting, and locked the door. The catfish retreated, their sparks dissipating into the sky. Rogue sobbed in relief and placed her head on the dashboard, crying fat tears.

"They were gonna get me, Aunt Carrie! They were gonna—"

"_Hush, chere. Da keys are in da visor. Get 'em, an' let's go."_

Rogue obeyed, finding the keys and turning the truck on. Aunt Carrie responded with a pleased purr.

"_Mmm. Dat's good, ma petite. You know I take care o' you. We can bot' get away. Let's drive, chere."_

Since when was Aunt Carrie's voice so low? Where had the charming, high-pitched lilt gone? Rogue's hand began to shake uncontrollably, and she had trouble keeping the truck on the road, much less in a straight path. She had forgotten to turn on the headlights, but she had a paranoid fear of what would be illuminated should she use them.

Red eyes flashed in front of the windshield, _"Boo!"_

Screaming, Rogue jerked the wheel away from the eyes, which laughed and chased her. Pink sparks trailed after it, shaped like fluttering catfish.

"_Come 'ere, baby! We gonna give you wha' you been wai'ing fo'!"_

The truck stopped suddenly, and with no seatbelt to hold her, Rogue slammed against the steering wheel. Smoke filled her eyes, and the smell of it drove her into a deeper panic. Were the sparks in the truck now? The sparks and the evil catfish and the red eyes?

But when Rogue looked out the side windows, clutching her bruised chest and stomach, she did not see them. But she did meet something just as disturbing. A blond man, perhaps in his early twenties, pressed his hands against the glass, his face shoved into the window.

"_Rogue. Sweetie." _He said, a wide grin spreading on his face.

"No." Rogue sobbed, hurting her ribs in the process, "No."

"_Come to me, Rogue. Please?"_ He begged, sadness filling his eyes like the tears that filled hers, _"I…I love you. I know that it can't work out right now, but I think it can. Please, Rogue? I know I can make you happy."_

"No!" She screamed at him, terrified at what he was proposing, "NO! Ah don't love you! Ah never will! Just let it drop, won't you?

"_But I t'ot we were…I t'ot you actually cared 'bout me."_

Rogue turned around and almost screamed in surprise. Tommy's face was smushed against the window, making her look distorted and ugly. Streaks of blood were smeared all over the glass and her face, which was so pale it seemed to glow. Brighter and brighter and brighter. From gray to white to pink.

_Boom!_

Screeching, Rogue pushed away from the car door and scooted into the passenger seat. Pink sparks glittered outside where Tommy had stood, but the mutant girl was nowhere to be seen.

"Tommy? Tommy!"

The pain in her chest made her stagger, but Rogue ignored it and threw open the driver's door. She stumbled onto the pavement, falling on her face and scratching her arms and legs. Glass bit into her skin, colored pink and sparkling like stars. The glowing spread across her body, enveloping her. Spreading farther and wider, swallowing her whole.

Tommy stood before Rogue, _"I t'ot you said we were friends…"_

The blond boy was on one knee, next to Tommy, _"I love you. Why do you keep running away from me, Rogue? I don't want us to go back to being partners, or even friends."_

"'_bout time ya get what ya always deserved!" _A bitter-faced little girl yelled at Rogue, pointing an accusing finger—Sarah, _"We were friends! I thought we were friends!"_

The pink filled Rogue's eyes, and she screamed and screamed and screamed. The colors were too bright, too powerful. She was going to die.

_BOOM!_

-/-

Sirens surrounded her, dull at first, then growing into a loud symphony that hurt her ears.

"Rogue? Oh, holy _shit_! What did you…Rogue! Do—don't move! _Rogue!_"

But she _had_ to move. She had to reach him and explain all of this. But…explain…what? She…couldn't remember. What happened? What was happening?

"What do you think you are doing?"

"She's in pain! Like hell I'm gonna carry her home conscious!"

Someone stood over Rogue, but she her vision was so skewed that she could barely recognize him, must less identify simple features like hair or eyes. Her eyes were shrouded in recurring images of her bleeding arm, glass in her skin, an empty truck, and the disappointed faces of…who?

"I'm sorry, but this is for your own good."

Something pinched her arm, and Rogue jerked away in surprise. Within seconds, the limb seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, dragging her to the ground. She was aware of the sharp gravel, but the pavement was also mysteriously soft. Like a foam mattress, wrapping around her. She could even feel the sheets sliding over her, as someone familiar but unknown tucked her into bed.


	4. Chapter Four: Wake Up Call

**Poison Apple**

**Chapter Four: **

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! It's great to see that there's a bunch of people subscribing. Makes me cry with joy. *sobs* Sorry it took so long, but here it is.

-/-

_BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…BEEP. _The noise says, _WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP!_

It hurts her ears to hear it, but the noise doesn't care. It rattles away, cruelly and selfishly, louder and louder.

_WAKE UP! REALITY'S A BITCH! WAKE UP, BITCH!_

"Ah, I see the princess has awoken."

She turns her head to the noise, her neck creaking like a machine in need of oil. She feels rusty, too, and heavy with metal parts. Even the thin blankets covering her feel heavy, and cold like metal, too. The first thing she sees is white. So white, Rogue wonders if she's in heaven. But it's not heaven, because she knows she doesn't deserve it. Not after what she did to Sarah, and not after what Bo did to her. Dirty things weren't allowed in heaven, and Rogue is dirtier than mud.

There's a pretty vase next to her bed, and the room is the same—sweet, nicely decorated, and beautiful. Rich curtains, wide windows, and pretty views. There's a swimming pool outside, and the water is blue and inviting, sparkling in the sun.

_Beep…beep…..beep….._ The unfamiliar machine settles into a calmer rhythm, the imaginary taunts fading into harmless beeps and into the background.

Rogue, on the other hand, is not calm.

Two young men sit in chairs beside her. One is draped in his seat, head thrown back and fast asleep. The other, a tall, muscular man with brown hair and eyes, folds his hands under his chin, watching her. His expression is forcefully calm, frightful in its neutrality.

Rogue feels a sharp pang—the look he's giving her is not good.

Despite her instincts, the man has a very soft, smooth face that encourages comfort, and his voice is just as soothing, "How are you feeling?" He speaks quietly, so as to not awaken the man next to him.

But Rogue knows—or thinks she knows—that the man could care less for his counterpart.

"Wha—who are ya?" Her voice is hoarse and throaty from disuse, and it doesn't help that her mouth is dry and tastes of disinfectant.

As soon as the words leave her mouth, the man's expression flickers with confusion. But realization dawns soon after, and he sighs with a mixture of relief, exasperation and…disgust, "I should have known."

Leaning back into his seat, he sighs once more. His face changes from irritation to frustration, then back once more. As if the situation is too much, he stands and paces, too. But when that fails to soothe him, he walks to the bedside table, picking up a folder along the way. He presses some buttons on a remote, and the bed silently shifts under Rogue, forcing her into a sitting position.

She feels uncomfortable facing him directly, and a voice inside her head warns her that this man is in a dangerous mood.

"First, may I confirm your name?" He asks, his tone wary and cold.

Rogue is surprised at the question but responds, anyway, "Ra—Rogue. Mah name's Rogue."

"Hmmm." He simply leafs through the folder, a tight knot forming between his eyebrows as he read further and further. He clenches his hands but tries to hide it, then snaps the folder shut.

"What's goin' on here? Where am Ah?" Rogue tries to wiggle herself free from the sheets, but they confine her against the mattress. They are too tight to simply be tucked in. When she glances down, she realizes why the sheets had felt so heavy. Three, thick black straps trap her legs and arms to the bed, "What's goin' on?" Her voice rises in pitch as panic begins to set in, "What's go—"

"Quiet." The man holds up a finger, eyeing the sleeping man in the chair, "I think it would be better if we do not wake Saint John, at this moment."

Rogue glances at the other man. He has spiky blond hair and tanned skin, with a sweet, boyish face.

How the heck is she supposed to be calm in this situation? She is alone in a strange room with two strangers, strapped to a bed, and dizzy with vague memories of a truck and the color pink, "Please." She says in a quieter tone, "What happened ta me?"

The man scrutinizes Rogue, a hand rubbing the scruff on his chin. There is a shadow under his eyes, like he hasn't slept for days, "It is understandable. You were on LSD, after all." He says this casually, as if he is telling her it was an average summer's day outside, "You were running around Queens without a shirt, calling 911 and spouting gibberish. It was a very distressing mess, and unfortunately, we were unable to clean it up. We do not have the resources to erase police records. Saint John spent all night disposing of your phone and ensuring that it couldn't be traced back here."

The man glances at the blond with pity.

"LSD? Wha—Ah don't do that. Ah've never—"

"Ridiculous. This is a common habit of yours. When we tested your hair, LSD was only one of many. We knew you had a long association with pot, and we have already confiscated that from your room. The cocaine, as well. You will be experiencing withdrawal symptoms later, but," He snaps the folder shut, his expression dark, "That is your fault, not ours." He seems to particularly enjoy the idea of her suffering through withdrawal symptoms of drugs she never remembered taking.

Without another word to her, the man adjusts her IV and tightens the straps on her bed. They aren't tight enough to hurt, but somehow, the straps feel constricting. He never looks at her, but his fists are clenched with restrained fury; he obviously despises her. The man leaves after that, abandoning the blond.

Thanks to the straps, Rogue is confined to the bed. The minutes stretch by without incident, and she is beginning to get scared. She is all too aware of the peripheral IV in her hand, and whenever she shifts, no matter how minute the movement, she fears ripping it out. She desperately wishes she could change positions or loosen the straps. But no one is there to relieve her discomfort, except the blond.

"Hey!" Rogue calls to the man, "Hey! Wake up!" To her frustration, her hair is falling in her face, and no amount of head flipping would get it out of her way.

The blond stirs a little but does not respond immediately.

"HEY!" Rogue yells louder, "Let me out! Ah want out!"

This time, he wakes up. With a jerk of surprise, he falls off the chair and scrambles onto the floor, "Huh? What?" He glances around until he sees Rogue, and his expression of confusion changes into anger, "What the hell do you think you're getting a wobbly for?"

"A _what_?"

"Crikey." He brushes off his jeans. His eyes, which are a bright and animated blue, glare at her with unbridled disgust, "Just because you came a guster doesn't mean you can—" Noticing her stare, he snaps his eyes away, shaking with fury, "Why…you're rooted, you know that. Nevermind." The blond strides to the door, but before he leaves, he pauses, "Just so you know, I was only sleeping here because Dom told me to. Don't think it was cause I still cared, because I don't. We both know you're a rooting bitch. I—" With a frustrated snarl, he leaves.

Rogue waits, alone and struck dumb with confusion.

Something is wrong here. This place feels different, cold. The way the world feels when awakening from a vivid dream. Too sharp, too clear. And bitter, too, as if reality was a heavy cup of coffee splashed on her skin.

When she thinks back, reflecting on those memories that she thought were yesterday, the images are blurry and indistinct. Mama's face isn't the same, a faceless image. Tommy's voice is warped, and Aunt Carrie's features are impossible to recall.

_It's a prison, here. It's holding her back, telling her she isn't allowed to leave. _

Something heavy presses against her head, like a vice on her brain.

_Ah want this to stop. Ah wanna go home. Ah want mah Mama, Aunt Carrie, Owen. Tommy. Lemme go home. Ah just wanna go home._

And then the pressure is gone, miraculously. Like it was never there to begin with, a ghost of an eerie dream.

"It's only been two hours since she's woken up, and she's already going through the symptoms?" Asks a regal, female voice. The tone reminds Rogue of Aunt Carrie, full of strength and power and love.

Two hours? Had it really been two hours? Just a second ago, the blond man was leaving the room, and now two hours have passed?

"I am not surprised." This voice is familiar. An image of brown hair and vicious brown eyes flashes through her mind, "Cocaine withdrawal can occur as soon as forty eight hours since the last fix. And she has been sleeping for three days without incident. Now is the perfect time."

There is malice and hate in that voice, as well as an undercurrent of disgust that whispers, _you deserve it._

"I thought you said that she was taking LSD."

"She had taken cocaine shortly before the LSD, which is not a good combination. I think the withdrawal symptoms from both substances are what drove her to sleep so long, and once all of the LSD had worn off, she began to suffer cocaine withdrawal."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"Cocaine withdrawal makes users tired, but LSD promotes the exact opposite. It is not a simple equation, but she had probably thought that since the symptoms are different, she could use one to counteract the other. Hence, in hopes of maybe hiding the fact that she was using cocaine from us, she also took LSD. But because cocaine can leave the user depressed, and LSD trips depend on the user's state of mind, she ended up having a bad trip. That is probably why she left the house and was so distressed when we found her—she was basically experiencing a hallucinated nightmare."

The woman's voice is bitter with guilt and humiliation, "The drugs? Cocaine? I…I never knew. How could she—without my knowledge? I…I…"

"Ma'am," The male voice is sharp, as if he doesn't appreciate the woman's concern, "I know she is like a daughter to you, but do not think that the ungrateful bitch is going to reciprocate your feelings."

"Do _not_ speak like that about her! I never want to hear you mention another word of this, Dominikos. Never again." In the distance, a door opens, "If you will excuse me, I have to go now. I leave her in your care."

Even Rogue can sense the threat in the woman's words, which were spoken slow and dark, like a blade sliding against someone's throat.

_Take care of her, or else _I _will take care of _you.

The man snorts, "Honestly," His clothes ruffle together as he moves next to the bed. Rogue can feel him breathing over her, and she can feel his hatred pouring down like oil, suffocating her, "You are lucky that your precious guardian cares so much about you, when all you do is treat her like shit." He turns away and whispers, quietly, "What happened to you? You used to be a good woman. But now...ever since that…"

Something smashes against the wall, followed by hysterical laughter.

Rogue lies there, eyes glued shut, and trembles with fear. He scares her, as he throws more and more stuff against the wall. Sometimes glass shatters and water splashes, and other times, the impact makes only a quiet _thump_. But he keeps laughing, angry and insane, until he begins to punch the wall with his fists. He alternates between cackles and grunts.

_Punch!_ Laugh. _Punch!_ Laugh, again. _Punch! Punch!_

Eventually, he stops hitting the wall, but his laughs continue under his breath. He pants, giggles, and pants again.

"Did you think I thought you were asleep?"

Suddenly, he is at her ear, and Rogue screams in surprise. But she can't do anything except jerk in the bed, strapped to it like an asylum patient.

"Hah! You really did?" He cackles, but Rogue can see now that he isn't laughing out of amusement. It is with something darker and scarier, "I am sorry to tell you, _darling_, but for the next few weeks, you will not be earning the privilege of sleep unless I allow it."

Rogue gathers the courage to open her eyes and look at him. It is the same man who had woken her up earlier, but his features are distorted with hatred and sadistic glee.

He taps the IV hooked between her hand and a hanging bag of clear saline, his expression sinister, "Unless I administer you anesthesia, you will be enjoying insomnia. And if, by any luck, you do happen to fall asleep, I would like to wish you _sweet dreams_." Laughing at a joke Rogue didn't understand, he leaves the room, locking the door behind him.

Rogue lies in the bed, confused and frightened.

"What's goin' on here?" She sobs.

-/-

Out of everything the man had told her, Rogue learned that he wasn't lying about sleep. Though her physical body is exhausted, her mind is active and racing. Sleep evades her, and it hurts like a punch in the head.

The next dilemma—the boredom—consumes her. Motionless and helpless, she can only stare at the walls, the door, the floor, the bed, her straps, the door again. But there is nothing else to be done. But wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait.

For what? For an insane captor to return and throw things? To taunt her with the hope of rest and an escape from solitude?

Her inability to do anything is the worst part. She is absolutely at the man's mercy. A prisoner, unable to deny his smallest whims. If he wants her dead, he could walk in and slice her throat. Or strangle her, or smother her, or inject poison into the IV.

_Stop._ She scolds herself, shying away from frightening thoughts of what the man could do to her.

Briefly, Bo's face flashes in her mind.

What if…? Her body begins to tremble with fear. What if this man decides to take advantage of her? Like Bo had with her and Sarah, eons and eons ago when Rogue had been a weak child? The current Rogue would definitely fight back, but how could she, if she is bound to her bed? It is almost as if the straps are her childhood cowardice, returning her to the days when she was locked in sheds and secrets.

She wants to cry. She hasn't cried about those days in many years, but right now, she can't help but fall apart. Gone is the strong wall Rogue had built in her heart, to ward off the dam of emotions she had hoped to suppress into nonexistence. She feels naked and cold under the sheets and thin hospital gown, available to exposure and her captor's slightest perverted whim.

Where is Tommy? Where is Aunt Carrie, and Mama, and Owen? Where is everybody?

Rogue doesn't know what tortures her more—the boredom, the weakness, or the unknown.

There is no clock to tell time, so she has no idea how long it has been since the man's last visit. When the door finally does open, Rogue is sure that it must have been hours, or even days, since he had left her alone.

"I was only gone fifteen minutes, but you already look like hell." He laughed at her, flicking her IV.

Fifteen…minutes? Only that long?

"I think it would be best if you went to sleep now." The man pulls a pair of gloves from his pocket and puts them on. He then opens a drawer and takes out a needle, unscrewing the cap and shaking it gently, "Have sweet dreams." Though his words are spiteful, he picks up her hand gingerly, as if cautious, and inserts the needle into her catheter.

Within seconds, her hand feels the pressure of the liquid entering her veins, and a numbness spreads up her arm. It only takes two minutes for her whole body to be affected.

Her vision blurs, and her eyes slip shut.

-/-

He was correct. The dreams were horrible. Rogue awoke all of a sudden, an eternity later, covered in sweat and trembling from a nightmare she couldn't recall. Lingering traces of fear still rack her body like a seizure, and she has the unnatural need to run.

It takes her several seconds of straining and wriggling to remember that she is strapped to her bed.

"Rogue? Are you awake, darling?"

A woman sits beside the bed, a worried expression on her face. She has sharp features, full of intimidation but somehow attractive—pale skin, amber eyes, and short, starry-black hair.

Of course, Rogue doesn't recognize the woman, but the woman seems to have expected this. She smiles, wearily and tinged with exhaustion, "I should perhaps introduce myself. I am Raven Darkholme, your caretaker. I have been so since your family passed guardianship unto me eleven years ago."

_Eleven_ years? When had eleven years passed?

"Ah'm….Ah'm…twenty….seven?" Rogue mutters to herself, straining to look down at herself. But sheets obscure her view; this woman _had _to be lying.

Eleven years—eleven whole years? Impossible.

The woman gives Rogue an incredulous stare, "Twenty, my dear. You must still be disorientated, to get simple math wrong." Then her expression flushes with embarrassment, "Oh, wait…Oh dear, forgive me. I forgot, again. You…wouldn't—of course not. I should probably be clearer, but it is terribly difficult. I keep forgetting that you cannot remember."

The world spun, and the urge to heave overcomes her. But she can't escape the tight grip of her straps and fears that she will end up drowning in her own vomit.

"Please. Ah don't understand, but Ah think Ah'm gonna—" She gags on the bile that threatens to surface, but she can't turn her head far enough to the side. Lying on her back doesn't help.

"Dominik warned me that you would…forget some things. I am still surprised that you forgot so much, but he mentioned it as a possibility. But to forget this much…to forget me…" Her voice trails off sadly, then she perks up, without enthusiasm, "But maybe this is a sign. A sign for a fresh start. Maybe this time, you won't go wrong, Rogue. Maybe this time, we can fix you."

Rogue heaves right there, choking on the sour taste. She coughs, unable to cry out for help. She strains towards the side of the bed, suffocating from the humiliation and vomit.

Black edges Rogue's vision like a pair of binoculars by the time the woman manages to help, "Forgive me, darling. Dominik specifically said that we cannot undo your restraints." The woman raises the top half of the bed high enough so that Rogue could cough bile into her lap, "We will have to get you cleaned up, though." She dabs a wet washcloth on Rogue's lips, cooing and coddling.

The woman rubs at Rogue's hospital gown, but the stains would stay. The water seeps through the gown and kisses Rogue's skin, making her recoil. It is cold, and she shivers.

"I am so glad that you have returned to us." The woman continues, ignoring Rogue's discomfort, "You seem a little stressed, though. Whatever is wrong?"

"Ah'm strapped to a bed with no ah'dea what's goin' on here. An' Ah'm covered in mah own vomit." Somehow, she manages to say the words without yelling. But she isn't calm, not in the least.

"You have to understand," The woman says in a placating tone, as if communicating to a young child asking a silly question, "We did not know what state you would be in when you awoke, and we were concerned that, even by accident, you might touch something. And the way you are now, the last thing you need is to touch someone and be compromised again."

"Again? Compromised?"

Rogue strains against the leather harness, towards the woman. She feels the need to shake the stranger, as if the answers can be loosened from her tongue with force. But the woman stands up and retreats, bidding Rogue a sad farewell.

"No! Wait! Tell me what's goin' on here! What are you—"

But it's useless. The woman, her eyes full of pity and regret, leaves.

And Rogue is once more, alone. She feels at the point of tears this time and doesn't resist them. What is happening to her? Who are these people? Why is she strapped to a bed? Where is her family?

She is full of despair, unanswered questions, and—worst of all—covered in vomit.

She cries and cries and cries, until she is somehow lulled back into sleep.

-/-

The man Dominik is at her bed this time, attending to her IV. When he notices her awake, he smiles—cruelly—and pulls a chair close to the bed. But not too close, with his nose up as if Rogue gave off a nasty smell.

"I believe you were demanding some information from Ms. Darkholme, earlier?" His grin is nothing but malicious, and he fingers his folder with anticipation.

Rogue stutters in surprise, edging away from the man, "Wh-what?"

"I'm asking you if you would like answers, Rogue. Well?"

Her clothes are clean, all traces of vomit and bile gone. But Rogue can still feel the ghost of her sticky stomach contents on her skin. When had they changed her clothes? Had Dominik changed them? Her cheeks flushed red with the disgusting thought of a man changing her. She wants nothing more than to run away from this evil man.

He seems to read her mind, his grin widening, "Yes, I did change your clothes. But if it's any consolation, it's not the first time. And your body is just as unappealing now as it was the other times."

Other…times?

"Back to business. You asked about your situation. Would you, or would you not, like answers?"

Other times? He had seen her other times? What other times? Since when? What had he been doing to her while she was unconscious?

"I will take that for a yes." Dominik flips the folder in his hands open, drumming his fingers against the cover with enjoyment, "Be warned. Knowing might not be the best thing, Rogue. Sometimes ignorance is bliss." There is a sharp edge to his words, as if he isn't speaking about Rogue and the folder, but something else.

He glances up, suddenly, at Rogue.

"Let's open a 'can of worms', shall we?"

Rogue feels like a child who had begged to watch a scary movie, insisting she wouldn't cry. She had been demanding answers, and Dominik is giving them. But why did she feel so frightened?

"Your family name is Darkholme, as it has been for the last eleven years. You came into Ms. Raven Darkholme's care when you were nine."

"No…wait…that doesn't make sense." Rogue argues, shaking her head, "Ah never—"

But Dominik continues without acknowledging her, "Your father was a friend of a friend, so when your powers emerged, and he was unable to properly care for you, Ms. Darkholme arranged an adoption. Under her supervision, you flourished into an excellent weapon. By the age of thirteen, you had full control of your power. At sixteen, Ms. Darkholme assigned you with the name Rogue, and you began conducting missions with her. You failed your first assassination—Ms. Marvel—at eighteen. Though Ms. Marvel's abilities were successfully contracted, she survived the encounter and is now residing in the Xavier's Estate, comatose. Hopefully, she will remain that way."

He pauses to take a breath, then grins.

"Also, while you were eighteen, you helped your mother recruit others to your cause. In Australia, you seduced a young man known as Pyro—Saint John Allerdyce—into the Brotherhood. Immediately after, you seduced another man in Greece, recruiting him, as well. Somehow, you managed to balance both men without them figuring out about the other, motivating both men to battle as your 'knights.'"

Dominik laughs at this, bitterly.

Rogue is too shocked—and confused—to utter a single word.

"Then last year, at the ripe age of nineteen, you suddenly lost control of your powers." He glances up at Rogue, "This is my favorite part. You lost your ability to touch others, and along with it, the lies you had been using to control the Brotherhood's members. Saint John found out about the other man, and a fight ensued. The end result—one was awoken to reality, and Saint John was stuck in a puppy love, convinced that you are his one true love and that you 'had your reasons' for playing him the fool.

"With your world crashing down on you, you revealed your true colors to everyone. You smoked, drank, and regularly indulged in drugs. Recently, cocaine had become one of your favorites. You also dressed like a whore, as if daring anyone to touch you. Luckily for the queen bitch—that's you—no one had the misfortune of doing so. Until last week. The rest, from then on, is history."

He closes the folder like a parent closing a storybook, gazing at Rogue with eagerness. He had read the folder intending to cause her confusion and pain, mostly the latter. It was no question who the 'other man' is. According to the file, Rogue had toyed with him.

According to the file, Rogue is a mutant.

"That's not right. Ah'm not a mutant. Nice story, but that ain't me. Ya got me confused with someone else." Everything in the file is an absolute lie. Dominik probably fabricated it to scare her, but Rogue isn't going to let him faze her.

The memories of her family are fuzzy in her head, but she knows, without a single shred of doubt, that they are hers. The history written in Dominik's folder is false.

"You're thinking to yourself that you have no memories of ever displaying any powers, correct? You have no memories of any of the incidents I have described, correct?" Dominik chuckles, withdrawing a sheet of paper from within the folder, "Does this ring a bell, then?"

A single sheet of paper—somehow it fills Rogue with anxiety.

"Born and raised in Northern Mississippi. Orphaned shortly after birth and placed in an orphanage in Memphis. When you were nine, the orphanage was featured on the news for the rape and beating of a little girl—Sarah Calmin. She was about to be adopted. She was also your best friend. The rapist—he was seventeen at the time—was convicted and imprisoned. Bo Ratkins. He died in prison, by the way. The investigation concluded that you were being abused by Ratkins, though you refused to ever admit it. But it was obvious with the way you began to act. You were moody, introverted, and violent. Especially when approached by males.

"Some years later, surprisingly, you were adopted by a nice family. The husband was a psychiatrist, and he viewed you as a project—something to fix. You reacted negatively to his attention and fled before they had even brought you home. Afterwards, you disappeared from the system. You were, after all, nothing but a troublemaking orphan. No one wanted to waste too many resources searching for you, not even your adoptive parents.

"Thanks to our sources though, we were able to trace the events afterward: you jumped a bus and returned to Mississippi. Luckily, you were taken in by a group of hippies in Caldecott County. You changed your name and joined them. You learned French. You also protested alongside the infamous Carrie Lévi-Franche, a Frenchwoman with an unusual passion for mutant rights. You involved yourself in a terrible scandal—the kidnapping of a mutant who was about to be lynched in the court, a little thing named Tommy. You and your friends felt it was your calling in life to drive her to New York and return her home, to the Morlocks. But, when you reached Brooklyn, an accident happened."

He smiles at Rogue, baring his white teeth. She feels nothing but hate for him right now. He had summarized her whole life in a single sheet of paper, and it revolts her almost as much as he does.

The things she has experienced—her life, her family, her friendship. Condensed in a piece of paper, her life seemed eerily insignificant and unreal. As if it didn't belong to her, but to some stranger, instead.

"Tommy fled your group, and you chased after her. You arrived at the Morlock entrance and witnessed something terrible. The entrance was a battleground, and you barely managed to escape with your life. Your 'family,' on the other hand, was not quite so fortunate. It was then that you, bloody and distressed, staggered into a young woman in an alleyway. She was high on cocaine and LSD, but you couldn't have known that. So you approached her and begged for help. When she refused, you grabbed her.

"Little did you know that she was actually a mutant. Her ability is to absorb the personalities and powers of those who touch her, and she sucked you dry. The story after that is incredibly boring. The young woman, high on drugs and your adrenaline, stole a truck and drove it into a light pole. She also called the police, convinced she was being chased by catfish. Her companions were forced to clean up her mess.

"Your body, on the other hand, was not discovered until a day later. You were comatose and instituted in a hospital."

He throws a newspaper into her lap. The front cover reads "Wanted Fugitive Cody Robbins Found In Coma." Underneath the headline are the words "Cody Robbins, involved in the Jackson kidnapping, was found comatose in Brooklyn on Tuesday. No sign of accomplices Carrie Levi-Franche, Owen Robbins, Priscilla Robbins, Flower Stevens, and Rick Fields."

A picture of a young man lying in a hospital bed consumes the cover.

A young….man?

"The name sounds familiar, correct? It was your name. Or, at least, you thought it was. You also probably thought you were a boy. It's difficult to sort things out when you're convinced that you're a comatose man. But the truth is, Rogue, is that you were never Cody Robbins. You were always Rogue. A cold-hearted, manipulative bitch who played her allies like toys and dabbled in drugs. A bitch who bumped into Cody Robbins and absorbed his personality."

Rogue stares at the picture. The boy in it is blond, handsome, and young. Probably anywhere between sixteen or eighteen. Behind his peacefully closed eyelids, Rogue envisions guarded brown eyes.

Dominik places a hand-sized mirror alongside the paper, its surface shiny with Rogue's reflection—a girl with long brown hair and white bangs, bright but haunted eyes the color of spring grass, bruises under her eyes. There's a neck brace encircling her neck like a chain, and she can see the hint of yellow bruises underneath the brace.

Rogue doesn't recognize the girl in the mirror at all. For a second, she wondered if it is a trick and blinks. The reflection blinks, too. It isn't a trick. The girl in the glass is Rogue.

"Welcome to reality, Rogue. You're not who you think you are." Dominik cackles in glee, as he leaves the room.

But he keeps the newspaper and mirror in Rogue's lap, where she can't do anything but stare at them and realize that everything she believed in—even the trauma of her childhood—was not hers.

It was Cody Robbins'.


End file.
